You Lost Sight On Me
by Idril Isil Gilgalad
Summary: "'What doesn't kill you can make you stronger' only works for a while; there's only so much someone can take before breaking". Carl and Daryl are forced to deal with the aftermath of Rick's death. Future!Fict. Three-Shot. Mild Daryl/Rick.
1. Part 1: Carl

Nietzsche said: "All truly great thoughts are conceived while walking." (in _Twilight of the Idols_). I found this quote by accident, and I only put it here because I dearly love this crazy old man.

I found this idea while walking, as it happens almost always – if I'm not walking, then it happens at least while travelling. The plot started taking form inside my head, and then I heard this song and it had to be done. It just had to be.

And it truned out a frikin' monster, way over ten thousand words, so I was forced to divide it in three. Chapter 2 isn't ready yet, but I'm getting there (15 pages and counting). And Chapter 3 should be short.

This fict it's unholy angsty (or that was the idea, at least; you can tell me if I succeeded). And a little disturbing inside Carl's head. You have been warned.

This is dedicated to **Dropkicking Bullet Shells**, who said she would love to read this when I told her about the idea that had popped inside my head, even if when I tried to explain it without giving away too much, it sucked. And who pretty much always says she would love to read all the strange or lame ideas that my mind makes up.

To you, kid, for everything.

And I'm still waiting for your one-shot.

–

**Disclaimer: **Don't own a thing, TWD, the song, the quotes, anything except the plot. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

**Warnings:** Swearing, (mentions of) character death, mature themes, mentions of drug use, mild slash (Daryl/Rick). And angst.

* * *

**You Lost Sight On Me**

_And you lost sight on me  
Whilst the wind it blows so holy  
As if I disappeared  
To thin, breathless air  
Drinking, bittersweet.  
And sometimes it seems  
That you lost sight on me._

–––

Part 1: Carl.

"_All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."  
(Mycroft Holmes. BBC's 'Sherlock: A Scandal in Belgravia')_

–––

Carl looked inside the room again and wasn't surprised to see that Daryl hadn't moved yet. He was still sitting where Carl had last seen him almost two hours ago. And it didn't seem like he was going to be moving soon.

He took in the scene in front of him once again, even though it had barely changed. He studied the light, Daryl's posture, the whiteness of the sheets. The smell of dead flowers. Carl turned around after a few moments. He felt he would remember this for a while, even though he didn't really want to. It wasn't something new. It wasn't unexpected.

He decided to take a walk around the fence, just to make sure. After all these years the walkers had stopped showing up as often as they did before, but a few herds were still roaming around the country. It had been the herds what had forced them to move every time.

It had been years since they'd last seen another living person.

Now wouldn't be a bad time to see another, Carl decided. Now that it was just the two of them, Daryl and Carl. Daryl who, against all odds and expectations seemed to have been switched off his everlasting will to survive no matter the cost.

There wasn't any walker in sight, but Carl still climbed to the roof to take a look around. No, no movement apart from the trees and the clouds.

"_'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house / not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse._" Carl recited absentmindedly.

He had grown used to talking to himself. He sometimes quoted entire paragraphs from the few books he owned out of sheer need to use his voice and memory, or break the everlasting silence. The books had become the only distraction from the monotony in his life. Morning meant breakfast, watching and taking care of their plants; midday for lunch, more watching, more work around the field; afternoon, watching, maybe hunting a little bit with Daryl, maybe helping his father around the house, maybe a little bit of reading from the books he had read a thousand times before; then night for sleeping, while taking turns to keep watch.

It was maddening. It was life.

Carl sometimes dreamt of escaping – not that he was a prisoner, but he knew how his father would react if he had told him. He dreamt of walking into the nearest city (how he missed the cities!) or even a small town, and finding all kinds of small treasures, things that he had forgotten existed, things that he had never known before. New books. More bullets and new knives. Maybe a radio with batteries that still worked – how long had it been since he had last heard music? Not since the guitar had broken, and that had been three years ago. Maybe. It was hard to keep track of things when every day was pretty much the same as the last, and the next.

Most times, he dreamt he found more survivors; new people that were alive and had new stories to tell, who probably had a good shelter of their own. Probably even a girl around his age who would look at him like she had been waiting to see his face all of her life.

Carl was rather certain that he was twenty one years old now. He remembered his birthday used to be in April (the tenth, he thinks), but they'd lost the official count of days at the beginning of the end of the world. Now it sounded very stupid, really, keeping count of days and moths, giving them names, celebrating dates like birthdays and Christmas, when in reality they were all plain days and nothing else. But he was fairly certain that he was twenty one. The next year (meaning, when the next spring came) he would turn twenty two.

Yeah, probably twenty two.

When Carl went back inside the house he didn't find Daryl in his spot and frowned. Where could he have gone to? Carl started to walk around the house, half expecting to find the other man slicing up his wrists with a kitchen knife. He didn't; instead, he found the redneck digging up beneath the old oak at the back of the house.

"Watcha doin'?" Carl asked, even though he already knew the answer. There was no reply. "Need any help?" There still wasn't any sound coming from the older man, so Carl shrugged and went back inside to go make them something to eat.

They only had what they harvested and what they hunt now. Carl had once opened a can of tuna that had expired two years after the zombie outbreak just to see what happened to it. The stench of the decaying fish had stuck to his hands for days.

Luckily enough, among his many talents, Daryl was a pretty decent fisherman. So they had been able to catch fishes when they had been living in that house near a small lake. It had been four or three years ago, before they had been forced to move out again. They were only three men against a herd, after all. And they'd found this house with a clearer view of its surroundings, so it hadn't been so bad after all.

Had they really been living for four years here? It seemed like less. And more. Like they had only been here for a few months and forever at the same time.

By sundown, Daryl still hadn't finished digging. Carl figured that the man had grown old, and that was a little disappointing. When he had first asked Daryl how old he was, Carl was surprised because he looked almost ten years younger than he really was. The past years, though, and Rick's illness had taken a toll on the redneck.

Carl wondered vaguely how much longer Daryl could survive now, if he was fifty one – probably fifty one. Carl hadn't seen someone that old survive long. Well, the only one he'd seen was Dale, really, but still, he hadn't survived much.

Maybe if Daryl died, then Carl could go back to the city and see what had happened to the world.

The night had fallen and there was still no sign of Daryl. Against his better judgment, Carl decided to go check on him – he had learnt from the very beginning that Daryl preferred to be alone when he was upset.

Daryl was sitting on the ground next to the almost finished grave and didn't look up when Carl walked his way.

"You want something to eat?" The young man asked casually.

"No." Daryl said. His voice cracked because of the lack of use.

"You should eat something or yer gonna pass out." Carl insisted half-heartedly.

Daryl rubbed his face. Carl wondered if he was crying. It was too dark to tell.

"Leave me alone." Dixon finally replied, more tired than angry. It didn't sound as if he was crying.

Carl shrugged again and did as he was told, entering the house and deciding to go to bed. What else was there to do, anyway? They barely had any candles left, and they saved them for emergencies. Anyway, Carl wasn't really sure where they kept said candles anymore.

–––

Next morning Carl found Daryl in his bedroom, sitting in the same chair he had been for the past two days now, deep asleep. His neck was twisted in some awkward position and his hands and clothes were covered in dirt.

Carl cocked an eyebrow and kept on walking towards the kitchen. When he was halfway through his breakfast, Daryl showed up in the door, rubbing his neck and looking on the verge of exhaustion. He let himself fall in one of the chairs and Carl silently handed him a plate of food - smoked meat, corn, tomatoes.

Carl would kill for a box of Cheerios.

Daryl nodded and groaned as a thank you and started eating like a rabid animal. Or a walker.

"You finished digging yesterday, or do ya need help?" Carl asked after a long pause.

Daryl wiped his mouth and looked up. For the first time, Carl noticed just how big and dark the circles beneath Daryl's eyes were, just how pale and gaunt his face was.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

"What's wrong with ya?" Daryl asked, point blank.

Carl blinked in surprise.

"Do ya… Ya don't give a shit, do ya?" Daryl went on, narrowing his eyes and tightening his mouth.

"Whatcha mean?" Carl asked back, honestly confused.

"Yer… yer _father_ just _died_ for fuck's sake, and ya don't give a shit!" Daryl exclaimed, slamming his fists on the table.

Carl kept his face carefully blank. He wasn't scared from Daryl's outbursts anymore.

"Of course I care." He said, even though it felt a little bit like lying.

"No, ya don't! It's like ya ain't even here! Yer just runnin' around like nothin' happened!"

"What do ya want from me? To sit there for two days, waiting for him to come back and fuckin' _eat me_?" Carl shot back.

Daryl pulled his chair back and for a moment Carl thought he would get punched in the face. He jumped to stand up as well. Daryl seemed to refrain, then, and instead just kicked the chair before storming out of the kitchen.

"Crazy old man." Carl huffed under his breath. But it didn't feel right.

Carl shook that sensation off and kept on eating.

–––

Rick hadn't come back after two days. Carl wasn't sure what that meant, but it couldn't be a bad thing, right? Maybe the crazy man from the CDC had been wrong. Maybe it took longer now. Maybe it had been aliens trying to conquer the world, or maybe it had been Nature's way of cutting down the numbers of those filthy humans that were destroying the planet.

Carl had lots of theories like those.

Rick hadn't come back, but still Daryl had decided to drive a knife into his head, just to make sure. It was standard protocol these days.

They put him in the ground that afternoon. It reminded Carl of way too many other burials before this one. He carefully put it out of his mind and grabbed a shovel to start filling up the grave. Daryl, who had barely talked to him ever since that morning, did the same.

When the redneck started taking longer and longer pauses between shoveling, Carl spoke to him.

"You should rest. I can finish this."

Daryl shot him a dirty look, and looked like he was going to argue. His gaze fixed on the grave for a few moments before he visibly gave up and let go of the shovel, letting it fall to the ground. He went to sit on the porch.

When Carl was finished, he turned around and saw Daryl fast asleep in the place where he'd sat down to rest.

Carl looked back at the grave and leant on the shovel a little.

"We're gonna miss ya. Especially Daryl." He muttered.

He smoothed the dirt covering Rick's grave a little more and nodded to himself.

–––

Carl never asked how it had gone down, that thing between his father and Daryl.

He remembered the redneck scaring the shit out of him when he'd first met him. He remembered Daryl fighting Shane and his recently returned father. And he remembered how, after Shane died (_after we killed him_, Carl corrected himself) Daryl had started hanging more and more around his father. Like he had taken Shane's place, but in reality he was nothing like Shane. By the time everybody else was gone and it was just Glenn, Maggie, Andrea, Michonne and them, Carl was fairly certain something had changed.

During and after their time in Hershel's farm and the prison more and more people died, including his mother and his little sister (how small and helpless she had been!). Carl thought he had completely forgotten about a lot of people by now, but it wasn't so bad. He remembered his mother very well, and that memory did nothing but wear him down every time he thought about it.

Then it was just Carl, Rick, Daryl, Glenn, Maggie, Andrea and Michonne. Most of them had decided to go and try their luck somewhere else, but on the road they had lost almost everybody. And so they had ended up alone, just the three of them and Michonne, and they had established in a farm house similar to Hershel's.

Carl's big first clue that something was different between Rick and Daryl was when he noticed how much those two stuck together, how they seemed to gravitate towards one another so naturally. Daryl was never openly affectionate, but Rick was more used to that. Carl had seen his parents together and they were almost always touching, even if it was just lightly. And the first time he had seen Rick ruffle Daryl's hair and smile _that_ smile… It just was such a different expression he used with his son. And a question had risen in Carl's head and he had started to pay more attention.

Michonne had disappeared around a year after they had decided to settle down. Daryl had almost gone crazy; she had been his best friend – '_and maybe something else?'_ Carl had wondered at the time. He knew better now. He remembered Daryl trying to go out there to find her, and his father trying to convince Daryl that they'd already looked everywhere they could. He remembered the worried look on his father's face every time Daryl went out searching for her.

Michonne never came back. Carl was pretty sure that Daryl had found her, eventually, because on day he returned with a different look on his face and didn't talk about her again for a long time.

–––

Back before Michonne's death Daryl did this thing, every once in a while, when he stormed out of the house and disappeared for almost a week. Mostly, it happened after pretty big fights with Rick.

The first time he did it, Carl thought his father would drive himself mad with anxiety. Rick had spent the first day fuming and trying to get over his anger. The second he had started to worry and went out to find Daryl. By the end of the week Rick was almost pulling out his hair. Carl remembered how he'd seen his father turn to look at the door and then out the window every five minutes. He went out every day and even kept watch most of those nights on his own.

Michonne had tried to ease him down without much success.

When Daryl had returned, unharmed and carrying a big bundle of dead animals, like nothing had happened, Rick had walked to meet him outside the house and started shouting at him. Carl had grimaced and tried not to listen to it.

"Daryl's such a moron." Michonne had sighed next to him. They had been pulling out the weeds from their little herb garden when they heard the racket.

"My dad sounds like my mom." Carl had commented. Michonne turned to look at him with a surprised (and amused) look on her face.

"What do you mean?"

"She used to yell at him for going away." He had shrugged. "She would be yelling at him now, just like my dad's yelling. It's kind of… funny."

"And ironic." Michonne had added.

Carl hadn't been sure what 'ironic' meant at the time, so he had just nodded.

His father had stayed pissed for a few more days. Carl had thought Daryl would go away again if he didn't calm down.

The next time it happened, like a month after that, Rick had tried to stop Daryl.

"Where are ya goin'? You can't run away again for a whole damn week!" His father had growled. Carl had never seen him so furious.

Daryl had pushed him aside and took off anyway.

When Daryl came back, Rick had ignored him pointedly until he could pull him aside and talk in private. There had been no shouting this time, at least, but Carl had heard angry words go back and forth.

"Not again." Carl had muttered.

"I think this is not the last time it will happen." Michonne had warned him.

"Yeah, I know. It's just… They're so… stupid." Carl had huffed.

Michonne had given him a strange look, but hadn't asked what he meant.

A couple weeks later, she had vanished, and all the quarrels between Daryl and Rick had been put aside.

After Daryl stopped looking, they had been forced to move out; despite how careful they were not to attract any unwanted attention their way, a heard had shown up and they moved out as fast as they could.

They always kept half their stuff in a car, just in case.

They had found a new house, the one near the lake, and established there. A month later, Daryl was going away again. Rick had tried to stop him once more.

"Stop bossin' me around like yer wife did!" Daryl had snapped.

Rick had punched him. Daryl, though, reacted quickly and pinned Rick to the wall with an arm pressed against his throat.

"Don't talk about her." Rick had hissed as soon as he caught his breath again.

"Then stop talkin' _like_ her. I ain't taking orders like I'm yer pet!" Daryl spat.

They had stood there, looking eye to eye for a long, tense moment.

"Get tha fuck out." Rick had finally snarled.

"Gladly." Daryl replied, letting go of the former deputy before grabbing his things and walking out the door.

Rick had rubbed his neck. A lot of emotions were dancing on his face, and Carl stared at him, trying to decipher them all. Then his father had seen him there, and he looked almost completely defeated.

"Sorry you saw that." Rick had said.

Carl had shrugged.

"Not the first time." Was all he replied.

His father had frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"You fight a lot. And you've punched him before." Carl stated simply.

"Last time I punched him was a long time ago." Rick had commented with a small smile. "He had it coming."

"He talked about mom." Carl indicated. Rick's eyes had filled with sadness. "You do sound like her, sometimes."

Rick had snorted a little, but the look of grief had only intensified.

"I know. I-I loved her, and I… When I worry, I remember how she used to worry." His father had sighed.

Daryl had come back only two days later. Both Rick and Carl were working in the garden (it was annoying how such a little piece of ground needed so much attention) when the redneck had showed up with his patient stride, like he could keep on walking forever.

Rick's hand flew to his gun as he looked around to see who it was. After he recognized the other man, he fixed his eyes in the plants. He didn't look up again, even when Daryl's shadow fell on his head.

Carl looked between them carefully.

"Saw a herd." Daryl finally broke the silence.

Rick's back had stiffened, but he still didn't lift his head.

"Comin' this way?" He had asked.

"No."

Rick had nodded and kept on pulling out weeds.

Daryl made the gesture of backing off, and Rick spoke again.

"If you plan on doin' that again, ya better go away for good."

Daryl frowned.

"What?"

"You heard me." Rick said. He wiped his hands on his worn out jeans before standing up and looking at the other man in the eye. "I get you need your space. I try to give it to ya. But if that ain't enough and yer gonna keep on runnin' away like this, ya better stay away."

There had been a long pause.

"Yer kickin' me out?" Daryl asked. He tried to sound angry, but there was a note of hurt in his voice he couldn't hide.

"I didn't say that. Said if ya keep runnin' away, you should go. It's your call." Rick had shrugged.

Daryl had stared at Rick in the eye. After almost a minute, though, he grabbed Rick by the front of his shirt and kissed him fully on the mouth.

"Would ya really kick me out?" He asked then.

"If you run away again, yes." Rick nodded, calmly.

Daryl had pursed his lips and looked away, thinking.

"You can sulk and yell as much as you want, as long as it's here." Rick added then. "Just… don't disappear. I worry too much."

"Ok, then." Daryl had agreed.

He had let go of Rick and took a step back, but then the deputy had grabbed Daryl's face gently and kissed him again.

"You smell like dead squirrels." Rick commented, wrinkling his nose.

"Well, _yeah_. And ya smell like dirt."

"Better than dead animals." Rick shrugged and then returned to what he had been doing.

That had been the first time Carl had seen them to something like that. And he wasn't really surprised, so when his father tried to talk to him about it and explain, Carl had waved him away.

"I'm not stupid, dad. I knew it was something like that."

Rick smiled.

"I know you're smart, Carl. It's just… I'm sorry for not telling you sooner."

"It's ok. Not like it's a big deal." Carl had assured him.

Rick hugged him with one arm.

"You are too old for your age." He had whispered.

Daryl hadn't stormed off again. Not for entire days, at least. He would sometimes climb to the roof and sit there for hours at a time, staring at the woods. He didn't welcome company when he was up there until enough time had passed and the sight of the forest had soothed him.

–––

Not much happened for a few days after they buried Rick. Carl kept on doing the same things he did before because he knew how important it was to keep them fed and keep watch. Just in case.

Daryl did the same, only he was looking more and more tired as the days slowly crawled away. He kept guard most of the night and was out hunting most of the day. When he came back he looked at the fresh grave for a split second every time, but when Carl noticed he started counting how many times the man did that.

Carl didn't go hunting with Daryl; the redneck wasn't talking to him yet and he probably needed space. Carl was more than happy to oblige.

Then, one morning he found Daryl's bedroom door opened and saw the covers all tangled up and lying on the floor but no sing of the man himself.

"Huh. Now what?" Carl muttered to himself.

He curiously started to look around, feeling like he was playing hide and seek again, after all these years. He didn't remember the last time he had played that. Probably with Sophia.

"_Come out, come out wherever you are!_" Carl hummed, checking every room in the second floor.

Nothing.

He came downstairs, feeling amused and excited.

There was a huge pot filled with corn boiling furiously. Carl cocked an eyebrow and turned the fire off. He checked that the corn was already ready and wondered what the hell that meant. He checked the rest of the floor and then the basement.

Still nothing.

Outside, their garden looked like it always did (Carl narrowed his eyes at it, like it was its fault he had to spend so many hours a day there). The oak and the grave where there too, without a change.

Where the fuck was Daryl?

Maybe he had done his "vanish for a week" stunt once again, Carl mused. Or maybe he had simply gone hunting. It was earlier than usual, but one could never know with Daryl Dixon, right?

Then Carl noticed the big rocks that were half-surrounding his father's grave.

"Ok, what?!" He demanded to the stones.

The stones didn't answer.

Carl looked around and decided to sit there and wait for the crazy yokel to show up again.

Ten minutes later, the crazy yokel appeared from the other side of the house. His hands were wet and he was carrying another big rock over his shoulder that must have weighted only a little less than Carl himself.

The boy watched, open-mouthed as Daryl let it down with a 'thump' on the head of the tomb. Daryl then proceeded to turn it around so a smooth side was facing forward, emulating a headstone. When he was happy with his work Daryl nodded to himself and wiped his hands on his jeans. Then he studied the other rocks and turned around to go back wherever the hell he had come from.

"Daryl?" Carl called before the man disappeared from sight. "What are you doing?" He asked carefully.

Daryl jumped back when he heard his name. His head moved strangely as he tried to locate the source of the voice. When he saw Carl, though, he smiled, but it looked weird – twitchy and manic.

"Carl!" He called back, happily. "Wanna help?"

Carl was even more confused than he had been before.

"What the hell…?" He muttered to himself. "Daryl, _what_ are you doing exactly?"

"Ima…" Daryl begun. He scratched his arm and then his neck. His hands were shaking a little. "I just… I thought it-it could use… _something_." He finished, pointing towards the tomb.

Carl frowned and cocked his head to the side, still trying to decide just what could this be. The sight of how Daryl was growing twitchier and twitchier (now he was practically bouncing up and down his heels) made him feel a little sick.

"Why don't you… come back inside?" Carl suggested.

Daryl shook his head, chewing on his dirty fingernails.

"Nah, Ima finish that first." He replied and started walking away again.

"Wait! Daryl!" Carl called, but he was ignored. "Perfect." He huffed to himself.

Carl shifted his gaze between the spot where Daryl had disappeared and the grave he was adorning like a druid temple. The young man sighed deeply and then shrugged. Either Daryl came back from whatever strange place he was in or he didn't. There was nothing for him to do.

Daryl finished surrounding Rick's tomb with rocks and then he busied himself putting them in what seemed to be symmetric fashion. Carl watched him silently from his spot on the garden. When he was finished and bored with dealing with weeds, he climbed onto the roof with a book and kept Daryl on his sight range.

Daryl kept on moving around and Carl was growing bored with it and with the book he knew from beginning to end by now. He decided to grab something to eat. It wasn't until Carl was done with his lunch and was washing to plates, humming distractedly, that he noticed that Daryl was missing again.

Ok, he was _definitely_ getting bored with this now.

Luckily for Carl, the crazy yokel hadn't run off away again, instead, he was crouching in a corner of the porch and looked at Carl with big, panic filled eyes when he came out.

"What now, Daryl?" Carl asked.

The redneck only shivered when he heard the words. When Carl took a step forward, though, Daryl took out a knife from his belt and pointed it towards the younger man.

"Whoa, there. Calm down." Carl said, putting his hands up. A part of him watched this form the outside (somewhere above his head) and chuckled slightly in surprise.

They stood very, very still for a long moment. Then Carl risked another step and the grip around the knife tightened.

"Daryl? What happened to you? It's me." Carl said on a calm, reasonable voice.

Daryl merely blinked. It was only on that moment that Carl noticed his eyes were unfocused and strangely _big_. No, not big – not all of them at least. Just his pupils. It looked almost painful.

"Daryl?" Carl tried once again. Nothing happened, nothing changed.

'_Great. My dad died, so now_ I _have to watch over his whack-job of a boyfriend_.' Carl thought sourly. He took a step back and Daryl seemed to relax a little even if he didn't put the knife down.

Well, that solved it. Carl opened the door slowly and walked back in. He looked at Daryl for a few seconds before closing the door again.

"Just great."

Carl didn't check on Daryl again until an hour later, and by then the man had fallen asleep. Carl frowned but smiled none the less. He still didn't get what the hell was happening, and even though it was unnerving, it was a change from the usually mute, harsh Daryl that he had seen almost every single day for the past nine years.

Carl approached him carefully. He saw the knife on the ground and took it without tearing his eyes from the sleeping man. He placed the knife on the porch stairs, hidden from view, and then tried to wake Daryl up.

It took a lot of effort, but finally the redneck regained a little of conscience. When he did, his eyes were still unfocused and he still didn't seem to recognize Carl, who scoffed before pulling Daryl up. The man was heavy, his body mostly just muscles despite his age, and Carl – who had inherited the slim build from both of his parents – stumbled a little under his weight.

"C'mon, crazy old man. Let's get you to bed." He mumbled, more to himself.

Daryl's head wobbled a little but he managed to stay upright and let Carl half-drag, half-lift him inside. Once they reached the stairs, though, Carl had to shake Daryl to make him cooperate a little more. There was no way he could carry the older man all the way upstairs.

Daryl pulled himself together just enough (and it looked as if it took him a lot of effort, but Daryl was nothing if not tough, even if he was old and crazy) and Carl was able to get him into his room without incidents and throw him unceremoniously on his unmade bed.

Carl took a pause to catch his breath and snorted when he noticed Daryl hadn't moved, not even an inch, from the place where he had fallen. He could be dead if it wasn't for the slight ups and downs from his chest caused by his superficial breathing. He took off Daryl's dirty boots (they were so worn out it was a miracle they still held together) and pulled the man's feet up on the bed.

Daryl was still unmoving. Carl frowned. He sat on the bed and carefully opened one of Daryl's eyes to see if his pupils were still as big as before. They weren't. It had to be a good sign.

Carl shook his head and stood up. He looked around, trying to decide what to do now when he saw the old plastic bag on the nightstand. It used to contain bottles filled with all kinds of pills, and was now mostly empty but for two bottles and that strange blue dust at the bottom.

Carl took the bag and studied it carefully, watching how the light reflected on the crystals, trying to guess what that was. He had no idea, but he was almost certain that it was what had caused Daryl's weird behavior. What else could have?

"You're too old for this, man. Honestly." Carl whispered with a lopsided smile. "Thought you were gonna kill me, or yourself."

Carl looked down at the still unconscious Daryl. He studied that still way-too-young face that was covered in sweat and dirt, the unkempt beard, the messy light brown hair, that funny beauty mark over his lip. He wasn't ugly, Carl could admit that, even in his drug-induced after shock.

Carl pulled up a few covers and laughed quietly when he saw the holes in Daryl's socks again. They _had_ to try and find some new clothes before the ones they had tore apart.

He sat on the bed again and pulled Daryl's hair away from his forehead to make sure the man didn't have a fever or something. Those blue little rocks and the pills were at least nine years old, so there was no telling just how bad they could be. Daryl's head was a little warm, but Carl didn't think he should worry about it yet. He decided to come back and make sure later.

"Serves you right." Carl said quietly, absently putting a finger over Daryl's beauty mark and then tracing the line of his jaw. "You're lucky a walker didn't get you."

A cold, big, more calloused hand clasped his wrist and Carl jumped. Daryl opened his eyes and blinked a few times. Then his hand grabbed Carl's chin to make the boy look at him in the eye. And he _smiled_. His lips moved like he was trying to say something.

Carl's heart stopped and then it started to race. He yanked himself free from the touch and Daryl's fingers made a strangely loud sound when they scraped his two day beard. Carl practically run to the door and launched himself downstairs and then out of the house. Only then he could take a deep breath and try to calm down.

What the hell had been _that_? Another side-effect from the drugs?

But something was starting to hurt in Carl's chest like nothing had hurt since the death of his mother and his little sister, which wasn't something he liked to think about. Carl punched his chest as if that way he could stop that feeling. Obviously, it didn't work.

He felt… angry and wounded. He felt betrayed. By whom, he didn't really know. It wasn't Daryl – or not just Daryl. The guy was high as a kite and probably didn't even know who he was. Probably. And that hurt too, and Carl didn't know why, and that scared the bejeezus out of him.

Carl started pacing, trying to calm the turmoil in his head and stop that frikin' feeling that his frikin' heart was shattering to pieces.

_That look_. _That smile_. That stupid, stupid smile and look. That terrifying smile, that heart-breaking smile.

They freaked him out and made his heart clench. They were _love_, dizzy and drunk, and that frightened him. Even though they weren't meant for him.

Love.

Not for him.

Of course not. Carl had never ever thought about Daryl that way (I mean, _c'mon_! That was his father's boy toy! And he was thirty years older than him!), but he had never… No one had ever looked at him that way, besides his parents. No one ever would either, probably.

Because, honestly, _who_ could? There were no living people that he knew. Sure, there had to be at least a few, somewhere, but probabilities were Carl would either get killed on the way there or by the same people he was looking for. People had turn into something almost as _bad_ as the walkers.

So, yeah, Carl was probably going to keep on living alone for the rest of his life. And how long could that take, anyway?

Oh, but everybody loved his father! Everybody, even that insane, stupid hillbilly he had tamed and lured to his bed. And his mother. And Shane. And all the people in their group of survivors, even as they fell one by one.

And Carl. Carl had loved him too. Carl had wanted to be like him, but he had never been able to. His father had been just too _good_, damn it! Even when he did horrible things, he had the strength to feel bad about it. He had carried with such a big responsibility, both their group's survival and their deaths, and he did his best, he fought tooth and nail, he killed and cried for them. That was why people loved him. As hardened as Rick Grimes had become with the end of the world, as unstable as he had sometimes appeared, his heart was always good and kind to those he cared about.

And Carl couldn't do it. He couldn't care that much. He wasn't strong enough and it would just… break him. If he let himself _love_ everybody like that, he would snap when they died. And they all died. Sooner rather than later.

"Why the hell did you have to die?" He snarled to his father's grave. "I can't deal with him! I can't… deal with… _you_, being dead! Christ, I'm this close to hanging myself from that freakin' oak tree just to stop being so goddamned _bored_!"

What was the point in loving anyone, then? If they all left, if they all died.

What was the point of staying alive, for that matter? The only other person he knew was so heartbroken by Rick's death it was pathetic. What was left for Carl, then?

Carl dried a couple of betraying tears and sat at the foot of Rick's grave, on one of the rocks Daryl had so diligently brought for him, and looked up at the darkening sky.

Really, what was the point of anything anymore?

* * *

_Reviews are dearly appreciated C:_

_The blue little rocks inside Merle's drug stash are Methamphetamine, and it's the one made by the main character of Breaking Bad. It's nicknamed 'Blue Sky'. I learnt this on the Internet, 'cause I don't watch Breaking Bad. I know Norman Reedus likes it :B._

_And, yeah, I researched the effects of Meth on people. _

_Carl's mind scared me a little. Not it was twisted, but it was detached and cold. I'm not sure I was able to transmit that. _

_This was never meant to be a Carl/Daryl. _At all._ Just for you to know._


	2. Part 2: Daryl

I'm sorry for the long wait. This chapter got to be even longer than what I had anticipated (it's currently 30 pages long, containing over 11.600 words) and I wanted to get things as right as possible.

Next chapter will be something of an epilogue, and it should be short.

Daryl's always such a challenge for me to write. I always analyze my feelings and try to figure out why I do things. And I like talking about feelings and ideas and shit. He's just the opposite. He's my favorite, though, and I keep trying, even if (obviously) there are people who can write him way better than I do.

An interview with Norman Reedus about Daryl that I saw the other day helped me a great deal, I think.

This one contains a lot more **slash** than the last one. Nothing graphic. I've got the feeling I got a little sidetracked, though, like I had too much to tell.

Thanks to **Lady Impala**, **Dropkicking Bullet Shells** and **velvetemr73** for your reviews, here and in my other ficts. You are great, and this is for you.

* * *

**You Lost Sight On Me**

_And don't lead me on  
And don't break my heart  
You know it's breakable  
You know it's sweet_

–––

Part 2: Daryl.

_"That which does not kill us makes us stronger."  
(Friedrich Nietzsche)_

–––

They never talked about the thing going on between them. They just danced around the fact that they grew uncannily close, just like they had ended up having each other's backs. And if Daryl had wanted to have Rick's back for a long time… well, he never ever mentioned that to anyone.

They danced around the fact that, when Daryl started drifting away from the group, when he started growling and kicking things, Rick was the one who got him to get back to his senses faster than anyone else. And Rick didn't do much besides approaching him calmly and letting him lash out. Rick simply took Daryl's anger and let it drift away. And then, when he deemed appropriated, Rick changed the subject into something Daryl would have something to say about and Daryl found himself snorting and making smart-ass retorts. Before he knew it, he was talking to Rick like his bad temper hadn't grabbed hold of him once again.

And if Daryl's eyes lingered a little too long, and if Rick smiled a little more sweetly, they never discussed it. Daryl was never completely sure he wasn't imagining it all, anyway.

They danced around the fact that Rick broke the contact barrier at some random point. Before any of them noticed, he was clasping Daryl's shoulder, grabbing his arm to stop him from doing something or even just to offer comfort like he had always done this, like it was his God-given right. And Daryl was just too surprised when he realized this, because he had never been the touchy-feely type. He still wasn't sure about what surprised him most: that it didn't bother him or that he hadn't noticed immediately. And that first time he observed it, he had lifted his eyebrows and made a double take of Rick's hand on his arm, just above the elbow, before moving his eyes to Rick's. The deputy had let go, with a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression and swiftly apologized. Daryl hadn't protested.

And they danced around the fact that they had become best friends out of the blue, without a reason to it other than they _liked_ each other. They didn't have the background that Rick and Shane had. They barely knew each other, and in that time they had threatened each other and aimed guns at each other's heads. Daryl had tried to punch Rick and the deputy had handcuffed his brother to a roof and stood on Daryl's way every time he was trying to pick up a fight with someone or drive an axe into someone's head. They had every reason to dislike each other, even to hate each other's guts, but they didn't. Daryl trusted Rick to a point it hurt, and he couldn't believe he had gained Rick's trust as well. He approached slowly, like a wild animal, trying to see if it was for real. And Rick had been patient enough to prove it to him instead of just saying so.

They stood side by side on many occasions. Daryl was always better off fighting and fending on his own, but when it was them against a whole herd or another group of survivors, Daryl would always end up next to Rick. When he didn't or couldn't, Rick was the one who found him. And they would keep an eye on the other just to make sure, even if they were on opposite sides of the fight.

Maybe it was because they were the strongest. Maybe it was because they had become both the leader and his right hand. Maybe it was because Daryl admired Rick and Rick admired Daryl – for very different reasons.

The first time Daryl thought about the word 'love' it was too soon. He had been wounded, Rick had almost died again and Lori was about to give birth. And they were just friends and the timing couldn't be worst, so obviously he kept his mouth shut. They wouldn't make him say it, even under torture.

The second time, his timing hadn't been better. They had lost most of their group, including Lori and little Sophia, and Rick was crumbling. So Daryl had just came and sat next to Rick, trying hard to conjure the same peaceful aura that the deputy did when he was trying to get Daryl to calm down. He didn't think he was succeeding until Rick had softly gripped Daryl's arm once again and squeezed. It meant 'thank you' and it was all Daryl wanted. He thought he would do it a thousand times again if needed, without hesitating.

And so, it had been somehow wordlessly established that they would turn to each other every time they needed. Rick sometimes talked about Lori, and even though it killed Daryl to listen to that, he stood strong - mostly, because Rick never talked about her with anyone else. Rick seemed to pick up on that soon, though, because he stopped bringing her up.

"I never asked… what about you? Did you have anyone… before this?" Rick asked quietly one time.

Daryl almost chocked in surprise.

"No." He answered promptly. "No. Was… was about to marry once. Long time ago. Didn't end well."

Rick had arched his eyebrows and nudged him.

"You never told." He teased lightly, testing his ground. It could be a sensitive matter. "What happened? If I may ask."

"Ya may." Daryl snorted. He scratched his neck awkwardly. "She, uh… she caught me… cheatin' on her. With a friend of hers."

"You're kidding." Rick laughed. Daryl shrugged and smiled lightly. "That ended it?"

"Yep."

"Was she pretty?" Rick asked.

"She was." Daryl replied a little stiffly.

"I mean the friend."

"He wasn't bad." Daryl muttered.

Rick blinked and kept quiet for half a second and Daryl prepared for whatever outcome.

"You dog!" Rick had finally chuckled.

"Can't get 'em off me." Daryl had smirked, deeply relieved. His heart was hammering inside his chest.

"Never took the plunge after that?" Rick inquired.

"Nah. No point."

"How so?"

"Didn't found a girl I wanted to marry. And with a… man just wasn't legal."

"Not in _Georgia_." Rick pointed out.

"Nah. Merle would've killed me, anyway." Daryl shrugged.

They stayed quiet for a few moments. Daryl shifted under Rick's stare and then turned to ask him what the hell he had lost in his face when Rick spoke again.

"It's weird to think about that. Daryl Dixon, family man. Father of two." Rick commented with the slightest grin. "Ain't a bad picture, though."

Daryl blinked, because it couldn't be. Rick couldn't be _flirting_ with him. He probably had just gotten it wrong.

"Father of none. It never held in court." Daryl replied a little awkwardly.

Rick had laughed – something he was doing increasingly those days as the death of Lori was being left behind.

"Didn't hang on that team long enough, anyway." Daryl added with a nervous smile, keeping his eyes carefully away.

"Huh, the plot thickens!" Rick exclaimed, amused.

"Shut up." Daryl mumbled, but couldn't hold back a smile.

They had danced around that too, the way they sought consolation in the other. The way Daryl offered his shoulder to be Rick's crutch and Rick tried to cheer up and make him laugh in return. The way the stuck together, come hell or high water, or brothers long-given-for-dead and dead wives.

At some point, it became a small joke among the rest, though, that they were attached at the hip. Which wasn't the case at all, because Daryl still spent a lot of time on his own or hanging around the others. Sure, he did take Rick and Carl out to teach those two city boys how to hunt, but it wasn't _all the time_!

Rick didn't seem nearly as fazed about that as Daryl. Daryl never got the courage to ask him why, because he had a bad feeling about talking about those things, like they would either come true or be proven wrong. And, as much as he denied it, he would've been crushed to learn it wasn't true, that they weren't close.

Then the rest decided to move on. Head east, Glenn had said. Like T-Dog had wanted.

It turned out to be hell. They lost Maggie first, and almost immediately Glenn. Daryl cringed when he remembered that, because he had honestly cared for the boy. It was like his little brother in a way.

When they lost Andrea, though, Daryl had wanted to kick every single undead ass in the country and yell his head off. It was too much, too soon. He did none, of course, and retired to his tent to mourn on his own.

He had taken the second shift of night watch. Rick, who was sitting on the roof of one of their cars told him to go back to sleep. Daryl said he couldn't and after a painful moment of indecision, he lay down on the roof next to Rick and watched the stars.

Daryl had never liked to be around someone else when he felt bad. Rick, though, was quiet and didn't tell him to speak his mind or something. He didn't ask stupid ass questions or made stupid ass comments. He was barely there, to be honest, and that was as much company as Daryl could bear at the moment.

And then, after a long, long while, Rick sighed and lay next to Daryl, with one hand behind his neck so their shoulders were touching. Daryl tensed up, but Rick didn't try to engage in conversation, so they just stayed there for a few minutes, just watching the starts together.

"Ya ain't keepin' watch." Daryl had suddenly said.

"It ain't my turn." Rick smiled, with his eyes fixed in the sky.

Daryl had huffed and made to sit up, but Rick's hand had stopped him.

"I though… Today, I thought you were gonna die too." Rick muttered. His face was dead serious now, but his gaze was still glued to some random star. "When you jumped off after her. To get her back. I thought I wouldn't… I thought I wouldn't be fast enough to catch you and they would get to you too."

Daryl looked at him out the corner of his eye and waited for something else to come, because he had the feeling he should. And he had no idea what to say, anyway.

"I saw it in my head. I saw it happening." Rick continued. Then he finally turned his head and met Daryl's eyes, and his voice changed, it became more determined and husky. "Fuck, Daryl, I don't want you to die. I don't want anyone else to die, but I especially don't want _you_ to die. You're important to me."

Something inside Daryl's chest swelled up and made it hard to breathe. He felt insanely happy. More happy than he should be after a good friend had just died, but he was a selfish man on occasions. And this was a good chance to be.

Daryl tried to say it back – God knew he felt that too – , but the words caught in his throat and died there. So he hesitantly extended a hand and rubbed his knuckles awkwardly against Rick's shoulder.

"Ditto." He finally was able to whisper. It was lame, but it was better than nothing.

Rick had nodded and closed his eyes. He looked sad and weary. Daryl had started to sit up again but he stopped himself this time.

"I don't think we should keep travelling. Was a bad idea from the start." He said.

"True." Rick nodded.

"We should find a place. Settle down."

Rick had laughed quietly. "Yeah. That's a little forward of you, but you're right." Daryl struggled to find a reply. "Just us three and Michonne. Sounds like we're her harem."

Daryl was speechless again.

"Yer mind freaks me out, sometimes." He had finally managed to say.

"Well, it's either that or blowing my brains out."

Daryl shifted. Rick didn't make a big thing out of that statement, but he was way too serious for his liking.

"Don't ya dare." He growled on instinct. Then he relaxed a little. "Keep saying weird shit all ya want, then."

Daryl sat up and looked around. They'd been a little too caught into their conversation and a pack of walkers could've snuck in without them noticing. But there was no movement in their little camp and that was fine.

Rick sat up a few moments later too. He was close to Daryl's side, and his body heat felt good. Like a reassurance he was still there.

"Gonna go sleep?" Daryl asked quietly.

"No." Rick answered with defeat. "I can't sleep."

Then he did something Daryl had never once seen him do. Rick leaned his face against Daryl's shoulder, half hiding and half asking for comfort. And Daryl, once again, though 'love' without meaning to. He lifted a hand to cover Rick's head and then placed a flutter, chaste kiss on his hair.

Daryl was never an expert on handling emotions, not even his own, but it seemed only natural to do that.

Rick was never like this, he was never this low, this overwhelmed. He was never _vulnerable_, for Christ's sake. He was tall and strong and determined. He kept on hoping, on dreaming, even if he hardly believed it himself, because the others needed him to do that.

Then Rick lifted his head again and smiled with a coy yet thankful expression.

"You're a good man, Daryl." He whispered, and his fingers started tracing the line of Daryl's jaw.

Daryl stopped breathing for a moment. A long, heavily charged silence fell between them, and when Daryl was backing off, mumbling some excuse, Rick kissed him.

It was far from perfect. Their teeth clashed and their noses bumped. Daryl didn't mind and his hands tangled in Rick's hair on their own accord. Rick shifted in order to make it just a little better.

Daryl didn't remember the last time he had whole-heartedly kissed anyone.

Then, way too soon, Rick pulled apart. They looked at each other.

Daryl suddenly felt scared.

"Ima… I'm sorry." He muttered, starting to move away, avoiding Rick's eyes and feeling his face turning bright red.

"Don't." Rick said simply, holding him in place. "I don't know about you, but I've wanted to do that for a while."

It was that slightly cocky, yet gentle honesty what got Daryl every time. Rick could make him do anything just by saying it like that. That was fucked up, but he didn't care.

So he nodded, keeping his eyes down. Rick let go of his arm and seemed to wait for something. Daryl looked back up after a while and saw that Rick was smiling at him, but his eyes were sad. That made up him mind and kissed the deputy again.

In the next few days they had found and established in a farm house. They put up barricades, blocked the windows and did everything they could think of to make it a safer place.

Someone had said 'be careful what you wish for, because it may come true'. It had never made more sense to Daryl than in that moment. After longing for the deputy for, what, a year?, he suddenly found his days, his hands, his mind and his bed filling up with Rick. And the reality of it scared the crap out of him.

It wasn't like Rick had taken over his life; in fact things changed at an extremely slow pace. They didn't dive head first into whatever was that was happening between them because they were both a little scared and a lot scarred – they had lost people, most of their people. And they were just _too close_, jeopardizing what had been a very good friendship, sharing the same house and table and space.

They took their time, and even that way, Daryl was growing terrified of it.

He didn't say it, of course. How could he go and say '_Hey, I'm happy we're finally together, and I think I've loved you for a while, but I'm freakin' scared and I don't want you around me even though all I want is to be near you. So, yeah, go away. And don't go away._'?

So, instead, he ran.

He had grown more irritable, and started snapping at Rick for stupid things. He knew they were stupid things, but he couldn't help it. The deputy, who wasn't getting any of this, snapped back. And so things had escalated, and Daryl had stormed out after a fight over something he never really remembered.

He thought Rick would kick his ass for doing it – rightfully so. So he had delayed his return a little more, and a little more. He needed a little time on his own, and he needed to think, but he used that as an excuse until he realized a week had passed and he headed back home, taking as many preys as he could hunt as some kind of a peace offer.

Rick hadn't even looked at the peace offer and started to yell at him for disappearing and making him worry and thinking he was dead and whatnot. Daryl fought back – he had the _right_ to disappear on his own! Rick stayed mad for days and Michonne scolded Daryl for being such an ass.

After they reconciled, things had gotten a little better. Then, it had gone back to normal, and Daryl ran again.

"Why the hell do you have to do that?" Rick had asked when he came back, in a low voice, but it was still filled with anger.

"I can fuckin' do that if I fuckin' want to."

"You can. But how the hell I'm supposed to know ya ain't dead somewhere out there?"

"When did ya turn into a _woman_, Rick?" Daryl snarled. "I can fend for myself, better than any of ya."

Rick's eyes had flashed, but then he took a deep breath.

"You…" He trailed off. "I know you can survive on your own, damn it. That's not the frikin' point. The point is why do you need to do _that_? I can understand you need to be alone for a while, but why a whole _week_? And I know you're tough, but not even you can fight a whole heard if it came at you."

"So, what, yer tyin' me up to the house? Last time I checked, you didn't own me."

Rick had looked like he wanted to punch him.

"You're such an idiot, sometimes." He growled and then walked into the house, slamming the door shut.

They had stayed mad at each other a little longer this time. A few weeks went by, and they were still barely talking. It made Daryl sad and happy. Maybe he was right in being scared and they were really not meant to be. Maybe they were just afraid and alone, and they had never had a thing in common; maybe they were together only because there was no one else around.

Maybe things could end then, and he wouldn't have to lose Rick later.

Michonne disappeared and they stopped avoiding each other, and tried to find her desperately. Even when two weeks had passed, and Rick said they had looked everywhere, Daryl kept on searching.

Every day, when he came back, Rick hugged him and didn't say a word, and Daryl held on tight and didn't want to let go. All of his doubts evaporated for a while, beneath the gripping fear for Michonne's life.

He never found her. He only found a trail of dead, headless walkers and a broken katana, and had wanted to throw up. It had been a large group and she had dispatched most of them while luring them away from the house. Then, apparently, her sword broke.

Daryl stopped searching.

She never came back.

When Daryl ran away next time (after they'd moved to a new house), something had changed. Michonne's death was still hanging heavily on him. She had been a survivor, just like him, and she'd been overrun.

Daryl always thought he was ready to die. He had repeated it to himself every day, even before the end of the world. He had lived day by day and made no big plans for the future. To be honest, he felt he didn't have any – future, that is. Of course, he did his best to stay alive, because he basically liked staying alive and there were things he wanted to do, but he knew death was hanging close to all of them and he'd accepted it just like he'd accepted that the Earth was round and the sky was blue.

Now, though… Now it scared him. Getting mauled by a pack of undead creatures seemed somehow worse than it did before.

He wasn't ready to die. And it wasn't just plain fear of death (which was only natural), it was the feeling that he would lose something more than just his life - that if he died out there, alone, it would mean nothing.

He had never thought that his death could actually _mean_ anything before this. Death was death, and it happened to everybody.

It took Daryl two days, and almost meeting face to face with a herd, to finally realize he was running from the last good thing he was ever going to have, and that he wouldn't want to go without Rick knowing that.

So he'd come back and, after hearing Rick's ultimatum, Daryl agreed not to run away again – which he hadn't been planning on doing anyway.

There had been (almost) no harsh words between them that time. Rick seemed to have understood something, just like Daryl did, and they made up and made love and Daryl carefully admitted he was feeling something close to peace.

And his mind hushed 'love', but he still wasn't sure that it wasn't only that they were the only survivors from their group and said nothing. And he certainly wasn't sure what 'love' really meant.

Days started to melt together. At first it was unnerving, like an unreachable itch on his mind, and he wanted to make something happen. Then he just resigned himself to it.

He taught Carl everything he knew about hunting and tracking and how to handle dead animals. There was something off with the boy, though, like he wasn't actually there. Ever. He was mostly hiding in some imaginary place inside his mind; he looked at Daryl and Rick and the things surrounding them like they weren't completely real. It gave Daryl the creeps sometimes. Mostly, it just made him worry.

Daryl had never lived with someone from outside his family this long. And, even if it seemed hard to believe at first, the empty routine started to make almost everything dull. After one, two, three years sharing everything, from house to bed, Rick's presence had lost its novelty. Which didn't mean he didn't want to be with Rick anymore; he just… wished that something would happen, that the days stopped being so fucking alike. Though, last time something had happened, they'd lost Michonne.

"You're awake." Rick's voice suddenly had pulled Daryl out of his thoughts. It was the middle of the night and Daryl should have been asleep for a few hours now, but sleep evaded him. It was winter; the days were short and there weren't many things to do and that was probably the reason Daryl's thoughts were running around and keeping him up.

"Yeah."

"… That was supposed to be a question." Rick smiled. "Why are you awake?"

"Just thinkin'."

Daryl felt Rick's weight shifting next to him and a warm hand rested on his chest.

"A penny for your thoughts?" Rick offered.

Daryl hesitated. He wasn't used to talk about what he was thinking, even after all this time. He did it just a little more than before because Rick asked him from time to time to speak when something was bothering him. Thankfully, the deputy never pushed too hard.

Daryl took a deep breath.

"Just thinkin'… Thinkin' how… if world hadn't gone to shit, there'd be a lot more people. You had yer job, I had mine… Just that."

Rick came closer and kissed him briefly.

"Now, what were you really thinkin'?" He insisted patiently.

Daryl frowned, but he should have known better than try and dodge the question so lamely. That man had been a cop, and they knew each other too well to play that game.

"Nothin' much." Daryl muttered. "That. Thinkin' about people. Our people. All the rest. Just how crowded it always was, and how there'd be people at work and everywhere else. I didn't have many friends, but… would be nice to see some of those folks again." Rick was quiet, waiting for him to go on. "And we met after this whole shit happened, and we've seen each other almost every day after that." There was a short pause, during which Daryl chewed on his lip, thinking. "It'd be nice to have a few people back. Glenn and Michonne and Andrea. T-Dog too, and even Carol."

Rick didn't say anything, and Daryl realized that he had probably screwed up unwantedly.

"What?" He asked a little too briskly.

Rick shook his head and the hand on Daryl's chest moved away. He missed it.

He'd definitely screwed up.

"You asked." Daryl protested. It sounded too much like a whine and he hated himself for it.

"'S fine." Rick replied. He sounded tired and a little distant, but not really mad. "I miss them too. And the rest of the world. Most of them."

As always, he had managed to put in a few words Daryl's entire awkward ramble. But, truthfully, Daryl had never been good with words.

"Ya miss her?" He dared ask in a low voice. It was pretty obvious Rick was thinking about his late wife. Probably.

"Yeah." Rick admitted with a sigh. Daryl had been right. "Not so much anymore, 'course, but from time to time."

Daryl closed his eyes and wished he hadn't said a thing. Somehow sleep had found him again, so he could at least switch off his mind and forget about all this.

"What is it?" Rick asked, suddenly.

"Whatcha mean?" Daryl asked back evasively, turning his back on Rick and wishing himself asleep. This is what happened when he spoke his mind, and he made a mental note not to do it again soon.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothin'. 'M tired." Daryl lied.

He sensed it was one of those critical points: Rick could either push it and try and get the truth out of him, or let it go. If he let it go, he could either believe Daryl and forget the whole thing or try to ask again the next day when they were more relaxed and rested.

Knowing Rick, he'd probably let it slide until tomorrow.

But when enough time had passed and Daryl was certain that the other man had decided just that, the idea stuck in his head and wouldn't let go. This was his own critical moment: he could either give in and blurt it out, or hold the words back and snap at Rick when he tried to ask.

"Was thinkin'…" Daryl heard his own voice and realized his mouth had made the decision for him. It was too late to back up now. "Was thinkin' ain't no way you'd be here if this hadn't happened. The walkers. And the rest of the group."

No answer came and Daryl begun to wonder if Rick hadn't fallen asleep again. He rolled so he was lying on his back.

"I wouldn't be here?" Rick asked slowly and quietly. Daryl could _hear_ that he was frowning, trying to understand.

"Yeah. If she was alive. Or the world still was normal."

Rick kept quiet. Daryl started losing his nerve and could've hit himself because this was one of those things you are _not_ supposed to talk about; even if you've been wondering the same damn thing over and over for the past three years, you still weren't supposed to show your weak points like that. It was almost asking for people to use them against you.

He was about to take it all back or simply roll over and die (the second option sounded better, somehow) when Rick finally answered.

"I'd be here. I can't prove it, but I'm sure I'd be here."

Daryl hummed something and decided to roll over and die anyway, because he wasn't up to discuss this. Stupid, stupid Rick that got him to talk too much; stupid, stupid Daryl and his soft spot for this man.

Carl knocked on their door and said it was Daryl's turn to watch and it was freezing out there before going to his room.

Saved by the bell.

Daryl sat up, removed the covers with a little too much relief and put his clothes on, trying to let this embarrassing thing behind.

He should've known Rick wouldn't make it so easy on him.

"Daryl?" The deputy called.

"Mmh?"

"I love you."

Daryl froze.

He was only able to move again when he felt Rick coming closer. Daryl left his shoes untied, grabbed his jacket and left the room.

He kept watch until dawn. After a while he hid his head between his arms and hated himself for his panic reflex. He hadn't been expecting that, and it was hard for him to believe it, anyway. He knew he was being a coward, a pussy, a fucking boneless chicken, but it couldn't be true; he had been believing it for the past three years, that it would never be like that between them, that it wasn't really 'love' or anything similar to it, and he was fine with it – that was what he told himself, anyway. And along came Rick and dropped the L-word like a bomb.

He should've been happy. And he was. But he was more scared than anything else.

Daryl remembered how he'd seen Lori and Rick interact, they were always touching and talking, and she was always supporting him and reassuring him and he was always protecting her. In their own way, they were a team. Not as in fighting team, but as in family team.

And he would never be anything like her, that couldn't be more obvious. So how could Rick say he loved him?

Rick showed up a little after dawn with two hot cups of coffee (or something that was supposed to be coffee, anyway, and was all they had left). He brought another blanket for Daryl and one for him and sat next to the redneck who couldn't look at him in the eye.

They simply stayed in silence for a while. Daryl held his cup tight, and it was so hot his palms turned angry red, but his body welcomed the warmth.

"You didn't wake me." Rick finally commented. He didn't sound angry or upset or anything.

Daryl shrugged and drank a little more of that "coffee".

"I guess I should take this turn, then. You can go to bed if you like." Rick added.

Daryl nodded, but didn't move. He squinted under the pale sunlight and looked around the house again. Nothing had changed.

Rick's warm hand closed around his wrist and he stroked the back of his hand.

"Go to bed. Sleep." He insisted.

Daryl looked at him, out the corner of his eye at first, but then he grew bolder and turned to face him fully.

Rick's face was perfectly calm and straight. Only his eyes seemed sad, and they were the only ones who betrayed him every time. Rick wasn't trying to get a reply from him; he was fine without getting one. As fine as he could be. As fine as Daryl thought he was before today.

He let his coffee mug on the floor and cupped Rick's face as gently as he could. Daryl studied the other man's face between his hands and once again he was surprised of how much Rick trusted him because he leaned into the touch silently, with little reserves. It made him a tiny bit envious.

"Thank you." He said, avoiding his eyes as he said it, but then fixing his gaze there. He wished Rick got just how much he meant with those two words.

Rick nodded solemnly and put his hands on top of Daryl's.

"Anytime." He said. He smiled slightly, even though it seemed a little pained.

They kissed, and then Daryl gave in into an impulse (something he rarely did) and moved to place himself between Rick and the wall, so that the deputy was leaning against his chest.

Rick relaxed there and gave a content hum when Daryl's arms closed around his waist.

"I… I really do love you, y'know?" Rick said in a small voice, as if not to startle Daryl again.

Daryl nodded – there was no way he could not believe Rick now, even if he didn't understand how or why and the tiniest part of his mind remained skeptical – and hid his face against Rick's neck, unable to say it back. He had been pushing those words back for so long that they refused to leave his mouth now.

"I realized you were something else from the beginning. Almost. When we started to talk more." Rick went on, and his hand started running through Daryl's hair. "I realized I liked you too much. It had happened to me before, to click with someone just like that, so quickly. But this was different. So, yeah, I'd be here. I am here."

"Good." Daryl replied in a husky voice and Rick squirmed a bit when hot breath tickled the spot behind his ear. "'Cause I'm sure as hell I'd be here too."

"Good." Rick repeated. And there was deep relief in his voice.

His smile was real for the first time that day.

Daryl never got the nerve to say it, that scary little word, until the moment he realized Rick was dying. He never felt too compelled to do it, mostly because Rick knew it and that was enough, and because he showed it in other ways.

It started after they had moved yet again and had been living in the new house for something close to two years. Suddenly, Rick started to lose weight for no apparent reason. Then, one morning, he was having breakfast when his stomach had started to hurt so bad he had to run into the nearest bathroom and throw up.

Daryl followed him, disconcerted, and made a face when he heard the gagging and splashing noises.

"Yer not pregnant, right?" He joked, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. "'Cause I don't think I'm the father."

Rick only huffed, without enough energy to make a coherent reply. Another a few moments, when his stomach seemed to have settled, he stood up and rinsed his mouth.

"Whatcha eat?" Daryl asked, curiously.

"Nothin'. Same as you." Rick answered, wiping his forehead. He still looked a little pale and weak, especially since he had lost a few pounds.

"Seriously, if yer pregnant, I'm hitting the bricks."

"I'd find you and sue your ass off. Child support _and_ alimony." Rick shot back. He sighed and rested his weight in the sink and dropped his head.

"You ok?" Daryl asked, placing his hands on Rick's hips. After what should've been over six years now, he'd grown a lot more confident about doing that kind of thing. He frowned when he noticed once again how thinner the other man was.

"Yeah." Rick nodded. He leaned back, grimaced and rubbed a hand over his stomach.

"What baby names you like?" Daryl kept on teasing after a silence, because he didn't knew how else to help. He sneaked a hand and put it over Rick's own hand that rested on his abdomen. "I'd say Dean, but with 'Dixon' it sounds funny."

"It's 'Grimes', thank you very much. You gave away any right you had when you hit the bricks." Rick replied between clenched teeth because of the pain. He moved away from Daryl's touch and the redneck backed off to give him some space.

"Gonna throw up again?" He asked, growing a little concerned.

Rick shook his head. The tendons in his neck were showing because of how tight he was biting down. After a moment, he waved Daryl away.

"I'll be right there." He hissed.

Daryl agreed and walked back, figuring he couldn't do much for Rick right now.

Finally, after half an hour, Rick showed up again and promptly left himself fall on a couch and curled on himself by bringing his knees to his chest.

"It hurts a little less when I'm not standing straight." He said.

Daryl, who was getting ready to go fix a few loose boards on the roof, stood next to him.

"Go to bed." He said plainly.

"In a minute." Rick muttered with his face hidden between his legs.

Daryl frowned again, but then he stood back and went his way. Rick could take care of himself.

When he came back forty five minutes later, Rick was getting upstairs. His face was still too white but he wasn't clenching his teeth so hard anymore.

"Feel better?" Daryl asked, feeling a little bad for letting Rick downstairs like that. It had taken him _this long_ to stand up and move.

"A little, yeah." Rick nodded.

Daryl threw one of Rick's arms over his shoulders and helped him get to bed. Rick curled like a little shrimp once again.

"I'll be fine by noon." He assured Daryl.

The redneck knew he was lying. He went downstairs and looked around their stuff until he found Merle's old drug stash.

"Take one of these. It's a kick ass painkiller." He told Rick, handing him a bottle.

"I'm not gonna do a bad trip with one of these, right?"

Daryl shrugged.

"Ya should've asked Merle that." He said dismissively.

"If I start to shave my head like the guy from _The Wall_, I'm holding you responsible." Rick warned before drowning one pill.

"Never saw it. But I'll keep ya away from razors and guns if you start acting weird." Daryl promised.

"Good man." Rick nodded in approval. "I love you, you drug-handler though guy."

"Was supposed to take longer 'fore makin' you talk shit." Daryl snorted and kissed the top of Rick's head.

"You always make me talk shit." Rick huffed. "That's why I keep you around."

"Thought it was my good looks." Daryl said, crossing his arms.

"That too, but it's always been your ability to make me ramble."

"I'm sure I have other abilities you like too."

Rick laughed and then grimaced.

"If I wasn't in so much pain, I'd take you up on that. You can go now and leave me trip in peace."

Daryl did that and let Rick to rest. The deputy was a little groggy during the afternoon, with a comic grin plastered in his face, but the pain had disappeared.

"I get why people get addicted to these things." Rick had said when the effect had almost completely worn off. "I felt in peace with the universe. Reaching Nirvana along with Buddha, Jimmy Hendrix and Kurt Kobain. Good stuff."

"Ima keep these things away from you." Daryl warned, narrowing his eyes.

"Sure, keep 'em _all_ to yourself." Rick rolled his eyes playfully.

It didn't happen again for a few days, that awful pain. Then it did and Daryl gave Rick another painkiller, only it didn't work quite as well as the first time. Rick mentioned his father had Gallbladder disease and that he should be more careful about what he ate. Daryl asked what should he take and Rick named a couple of things that he remembered his father using, for example, peppermint and olive oil. Daryl could've cracked a joke, but the warning look Rick shot him and the way his fists were clenched as he endured the pain made him refrain.

Things got better for a while. The third time it happened, Daryl started to get worried. It wasn't the same as before, the pain wasn't so severe and Rick didn't throw up, but Rick was so careful about the whole thing (if the ache was so bad, Daryl completely understood he didn't want to go through it again) that it seemed weird it wasn't working.

Maybe they were doing it wrong. None of them were doctors, so maybe it was something else.

Daryl drove into the nearest town. Rick insisted that he took Carl, but Daryl didn't (and fully expected to be scolded when he got back, but didn't care). He was sure he could do it on his own, and he didn't like the thought of leaving Rick alone.

Carl didn't even ask to tag along, anyway.

Daryl reminded himself he should be careful. After all those years of staying mostly in their farm houses, he felt out of shape. And – even if he hated to admit it – also a little old. But there weren't many walkers in sight, and as soon as he took the first shot with is dear old crossbow and he used his knife once again he fell back into training and it was like he had dropped ten years off his back.

He got as much medical supplies as he could find and had to look hard for some kind of medical handbook – that almost cost him getting trapped inside the little local library, but that was the part he wasn't about to tell Rick.

In the end he got away fairly unscathed.

The book didn't help at all, and Daryl would've burned the damn thing if he could've. Rick didn't let him – he claimed it was better than nothing and shot Daryl a dirty look, probably (again) for going on his own.

Rick's health didn't seem to be improving, but it wasn't dramatically worst either and Daryl kept on repeating himself that. And then, one day, Rick's face and eyes turned yellow and Daryl almost freaked out.

He tried to read the book again and ended up throwing it across the room in frustration. Daryl pulled up his knees into his chest and put his hands in his hair and just sat there, glaring at the book he couldn't begin to understand (he could barely pronounce half of the words written in it) and feeling the fear creep slowly into him. It wasn't fast, it wasn't overwhelming; it was slow and deliberate, like drowning, like the fear was choking him little by little, eating him up limb by limb while he couldn't do a thing to fight it off.

He had tried to deny it this all this time. He had suspected it, known it, but he'd refused to accept it. Now he couldn't anymore and had to surrender to that fear.

He stayed there for a long, long time.

When he could push the slow dread again and was able to move, he took the book and opened it once more, this time forcing himself to be patient and concentrate on the strange words instead of blindly panicking.

What he found wasn't very useful, and even less encouraging. He knew that people suffering from hepatitis turned yellow, and that gave him a place to start. But, apparently turning yellow could mean all kinds of things, none of which were good.

He dropped the book and walked upstairs. He found Rick in their bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror like he didn't recognize himself. Daryl couldn't blame him; he looked a lot different when his skin color looked like it should belong to a Simpson's character.

Daryl gazed at the Rick reflected in the mirror, and Rick's face softened when he noticed his presence. Daryl hesitated and then slowly came closer, feeling like his knees were about to give in, and leaned his forehead on the back of Rick's neck, hiding.

He hugged the deputy tight and Rick placed his cold hands on top of Daryl's.

They didn't move for a while.

"I love you." Daryl whispered.

Rick went still. When Daryl gathered the courage to lift his head up, he put his chin on Rick's shoulder. He looked in the mirror and saw them, both of them, not for the first time. But it felt like a first time somehow. He took in the scene like had done many times before – Daryl didn't consider himself to be especially sentimental, but he did make a couple of things like that, keeping memories he considered ought to be remembered. Like this, like how he had somehow earned the right to be this close the Rick, hold him in his arms or be held, or making Rick laugh and see up close how the little lines formed around his big blue eyes, hide his face in the crook of Rick's neck.

Rick seemed surprised. Not shocked, not sad, not happy, not confused or disbelieving. Only surprised. And that somehow worsened the tight feeling inside Daryl's chest.

Rick opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Then his expression changed and his eyes welled up. Daryl couldn't stand it. He stumbled back and walked away blindly and ended up on the roof, in the place he usually sat when he needed to be alone.

Daryl didn't remember when was the last time he had cried this hard. Probably not since he was in his twenties and his heart had been sort of broken. Well, seemed like he hadn't know a thing about heartbreak back then, because Daryl didn't remember ever feeling so much pain and despair.

He wanted to run. His first impulse was as coward and selfish as ever; he wanted to run far, far away and not see this, not witness this, not to _remember_ this. Because if he was going to lose Rick, then he could at least keep good memories and not the ones of illness and death.

For a moment he was about to do just that, pick up his shit and leave. He wasn't cut up for this, he didn't know how to _handle_ this, how to take care of someone. He would probably just mess things up even more, anyway. He'd just snap or break things like he used to do, he'd probably say or do the wrong thing and then Rick would be even worse than if he wasn't there, because how could Rick be better with him, _him_, there?

Daryl went back inside and walked downstairs and started pacing. When he felt he was about to start smashing every single object in the house he ran outside and almost into the woods.

He stopped there, breathing heavily and letting his gaze wonder into the dark allure of the forest, smelling the familiar and comforting scent of rain and trees and just _nature_. It always soothed him like anything else could. It felt like the only place he had ever belonged, the only place he had ever been able to be himself, the only place he felt free.

But he couldn't go there.

Daryl sighed deeply. He put his hands on his still wet face and looked at the moist covering his fingers with a distant amazement. He was crying. He was finally starting to understand that, yes, it would soon be over. Way too soon. He wasn't ready for it. He needed to be ready for it, he needed more time, damn it.

Time was the only thing he didn't have, though. Without any real medical test, treatment or even a frickin' nurse or something, what could they do? What could they _do_? Besides praying (yeah, right, Daryl was pretty sure J.C. was busy and amused torturing humans somewhere, like a little kid scorching ants with a magnifying glass) and hoping it would get better. Prayers and hopes had clearly never worked for any of them, why would it start now?

But he wasn't up to this task, of helping someone through a bad illness; an illness that would end up in death. Daryl wasn't a comforting person. He had grown used to dealing with Rick and Carl and he'd become a lot more aware of who he was and how the other people was feeling, but this was something else; Daryl had never dealt with a dying person before.

"Oh, God." He muttered. An old habit, really, because God wasn't going to come and help him and save Rick. "Oh, fuck."

He couldn't leave. Rick was already weak, and he was going to get even weaker. His life wasn't going to end up nicely. And as much as it terrified Daryl to face this, the thought of Rick being left behind was worst. Daryl would lose it if Rick did that to him – he would end up shooting himself either way, that part was clear, but being tossed aside like a broken toy? He wouldn't stand it. It would break him even worse than a disease.

But Rick would never do that to him.

Curiously enough, Daryl always thought he'd be the first one to die. He had never pictured something like _this_ (sickness) taking them away; he had always assumed it would be walkers or other people or a bad accident. But he always thought he would go first. He was a little older – only four years, but that seemed like enough to justify it. And for whatever reason he'd imagined himself going down with guns blazing, taking as many walkers or other people as possible. Hopefully, if that helped Rick and Carl get away.

His imagination was corny and he had some kind of lone hero complex. But he would've been happy to go like that. This, however… this seemed stupid and unfair and ironic and ordinary.

What was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to help? And afterwards?

Before Rick, before letting the man under his skin, Daryl hadn't needed an excuse to survive. He wanted to live and he tried his best; he'd always been alone and that wasn't a problem. But now he'd let this – _them_ – rule his life, he had built the few things he had around Rick. So what was he supposed to do?

Most of his life, he'd firmly believed that what didn't kill you could make you stronger. He had always been able to move on easily; when Rick handcuffed Merle to a roof, he hadn't mourned for long. He hadn't grieved long for Sophia or any of the others. He hadn't even fallen into shock after killing his own brother later on (though it still haunted him at night sometimes). Not for Glenn or Maggie. Not for Andrea or Michonne. He had hardened after losing his group and his brother both times, he had taken it and let it make him more ruthless, more determined. He'd tried to make his peace with every loss, grab what he needed, bury the memories far away, and keep going. But it had been harder every time; like every person he'd let in and had later died had taken a piece of him.

Daryl knew he probably would be able of moving on now as well. He would be able to take all those things, all those _feelings_, and shove them away of his mind. But this was different, this was _Rick_. And, after all that had happened, after the end of the world, the death of every single person he'd ever met… why?

He'd always believed that what doesn't kill you will make you stronger; it had been his life-long motto. But he had never counted with this, with the fact that endurance had a limit, with the fact that 'what doesn't kill you will make you stronger' only worked for a while because there was only so much someone could take before breaking. It didn't mean you couldn't pull yourself together again, but it made you wonder "why bother?"

This whole thing made him just so… mad. It wasn't fair. It simply wasn't. And it was even worst that it was happening to them, to Rick, after all they had been through and all the things they had to do to stay alive this long. Just another proof that fate had a twisted sense of humor.

Rick was sitting on the porch with the medical book in his hands when Daryl got back. He stopped a couple of feet away and rubbed his neck, trying to decide what to say. He wasn't proud of his reaction. Rick didn't look upset, though, only tired.

They simply looked at each other for a few moments.

"My father… he died of pancreatic cancer like two years before the walkers." Rick finally said.

Daryl's eyes widened.

"You knew." He stated rather than asked. It sounded like an accusation.

It was pretty obvious, really, because Rick had just said so.

"Yes." Rick nodded, running a hand through his hair.

"And you couldn't tell me?" Daryl asked, suddenly getting angry. He heated to be blindsided.

"What for?" Rick asked back, shrugging. "I wasn't sure. And I didn't think it would be… There were a thousand other things trying to kill us. I didn't even remember it until… until it started to hurt."

"You could've still… said somethin'!"

"What for, Daryl? Can you cure cancer?" Rick snapped. "Can you even tell me if it is that or just, I don't know, anything else?"

Daryl narrowed his eyes at him. He knew he was right, Rick could've told him _something_, but it lacked of importance next to the fact that, whatever it was, Rick wouldn't make it. He took a deep breath and let it go, lifting his face towards the sky.

He tried to ease down his anger, to stop the need to yell and smash things. After a while, he licked his lips and talked, still looking up.

"You read that thing, right? What does it say?"

"Nothin' useful. Pancreatic cancer is one of the worst. My father didn't last a whole year, even with the therapy." Rick answered, and it sounded like he was playing with the book. "I'm… There's nothing _to_ do. Even if the world hadn't ended, it would still be…"

His voice broke, he couldn't say it.

Daryl shut his eyes as tight as he could, and when that failed to contain a few more tears he dried them away briskly.

"Whatcha wanna do, then?" He asked, forcing his voice through the lump in his throat.

Rick didn't answer immediately and Daryl finally faced him again. Rick was looking at the book, but he didn't seem to see it at all.

"This says that my kidneys should fail. From then on… it's just going to be worst. There's no need for that, is it? I'm not sure how long I could last like that, anyway." Rick replied with a distant voice.

Daryl backed up a few steps. He hadn't been waiting for any other answer, but it still felt… wrong. Surreal.

"I guess… I'm guessing you don't like sick people, do you? Not that anyone does." Rick asked suddenly.

Daryl shook his head. He saw the lost look on Rick's face and it reminded him again of what he had thought about being left behind, of being discarded. How it would be too much.

He bit his lip and forced himself to go and sit next to Rick.

"I ain't… used to it." He said. "Don't know what to do."

"Me neither." Rick admitted.

"But I ain't going nowhere." Daryl added on impulse.

Rick nodded and didn't respond.

Slowly Daryl put an arm around Rick and pulled him into a hug. He hated how the other man clung to him; he hated how weak this thing made him. Rick was never like this.

"I love you." He repeated without thinking. "'M sorry I didn't say that sooner."

Rick didn't answer.

It took a while, but they slowly got used to the idea. As much as they could, that is. Carl didn't take it too bad. He barely reacted, in fact. Daryl later saw him with red, swollen eyes, but it never happened again and the boy kept calm and collected.

It gave Daryl a strange feeling - a mixture of alarm and anger and disgust. But also a little bit of envy. He sometimes wished he could keep a cool head about things, especially this, but that was never his nature.

After he'd accepted things a little more, after he'd grown past his anger just enough to be able not to start barking at Rick for whatever reason, Daryl suddenly found himself talking to Rick about things he'd never told him before. Some things, he'd never told anyone.

He found himself telling him about his family. He never talked much about them, but now he started filling in the gaps. He spoke about his mother, who had the softest hands and the sweetest little voice and had died when he was a kid. His father, who loved cheap booze and fast women and was never around. When he was around, though, it was better not to make loud noises or complain too much. That's how he ended up with the scar on his chest, and a few others.

Rick had never asked about those scars, even though from time to time he obviously had wanted to. He rand cold fingers on top of them when Daryl told him that story and tightened his lips but he didn't make a comment other than one sincere "I'm sorry".

Daryl was grateful for that.

It had been a long time ago, anyway. In another life.

He told Rick of how he had dreamed of becoming a soldier or even a cop for a while, back after the death of his mother. She would've liked it.

"Really?" Rick asked smiling. Daryl nodded. "That would've been weird. And fun. We could've been partners."

Daryl huffed, but laughed a little.

"I don't think so." He replied. "When Merle got back from juvy he talked about cops and all that… He hated them. He would've thrown me out if I'd said anythin'."

Rick had muttered something, but didn't argue.

Daryl told him about some odd habits he had developed, like spying on their few neighbors, especially their kids, following their routines like he was a spy or a hunter – how he had discovered that the mother had a lover and the older sister snuck out the house every Thursday to meet her boyfriend. Or following people's tracks for as long as he could (that had caused him to get lost several times). How he filled jars with fireflies or grasshoppers. How he had liked to draw, but he never showed his drawings to anyone other than his teacher at school, until he'd offered to get him into an art club and Daryl had refused; the teacher tried to insist and Daryl had never talked to him again. Or how he had learnt to play guitar behind Merle's back and his brother had only found out after almost three years.

Daryl told Rick about how many problems Merle had gotten himself into, hanging with his friends, stealing things, selling drugs now and then, picking fights with other army members and getting discharged. But he also told him of how Merle would sometimes remember about his little brother and teach him hunting tricks, or how to fix engines, or how to pick up chicks on the best Merle-style that only worked on extremely dumb, ignorant women with no self-respect.

Rick laughed at that part.

"It really worked then?" He asked, bowing his head and grinning.

Daryl was lying next to him, with his head on his chest.

"Sometimes. Those girls never lasted long, though."

"And you did that too?"

Daryl gnawed on his lip and shook his head.

"Nah. Was too busy tryin' to keep my brotha from bein' beaten or getting bitch-slapped."

"That's a lame excuse." Rick muttered with a smile, playing with the too-long fringe on Daryl's forehead. "What about that girl you were gonna marry?"

Daryl groaned, in obvious discomfort, but didn't move away.

"She was a… friend of mine. Of some sort." He started, a little begrudgingly. "She got knocked up an' needed a husband fer that. I said yes."

"Huh." Rick mumbled. "That's a new one. So she just asked for your help? You sure you weren't the father, anyway?"

Daryl didn't reply immediately. Rick seemed to think he had screwed up, because he started taking the question back, but Daryl made a gesture for him to shut up.

"'M sure. We never, uh, did it. So, no way." He said, noting how the tips of his ears started to burn.

"Why you said yes, then?" Rick wondered.

"'Cause she needed help." Daryl shrugged.

"And you were willing to marry just for that?" Rick asked, disbelieving.

"Was the only way to get away."

Rick said "oh" and kept quiet for a while.

"Then she found her with her friend, right? Called off the deal?" He finally asked to get the conversation back in track.

"Yep." Daryl nodded, shifting a little.

"Sorry, bad memory?" Rick apologized.

"No… Could've been worst. She never told Merle. He woulda beaten the crap outta me." Daryl answered. "He gave me a hard time for backing up and leavin' 'my' kid, but that was all."

"And then?"

Daryl shifted again. He had kind of sworn to himself not to mention this to Rick, but now… he wanted to, for some reason. It was embarrassing, but he wanted Rick to know.

"Nothin' much. Went out with a girl once, for a while. Nothin' happened. And I… went to this bars… a couple times… but…" He shrugged and chewed on his thumbnail, hoping Rick got it.

It took the deputy almost a whole minute the caught up with what he was implying.

"What are ya sayin'?" He inquired, stunned. "You never…?"

"Not really." Daryl gave an uncomfortable nod and kept on chewing his nail.

"But…"Rick hesitated, then let out a small chuckle. "I don't believe that. You, looking like _this_? Never slept with anyone? Really?"

"Ain't somethin' to brag about." Daryl pointed out, although a little bashful due to the compliment about his appearance.

"Well… yeah." Rick conceded. He chuckled again and shook his head. "Go figure. And to think I though you knew what you were doing."

"Ya never complained." Daryl reminded him.

For a while, Daryl started to believe it wouldn't get worst. Again. And again he was wrong. Rick was having bad days increasingly now – those days when the pain was too strong to get up. Daryl saw their painkillers disappearing at an alarming rate. Rick spent most of those days in a half asleep state; he barely noted the things happening around him. It broke Daryl's heart. It wasn't every day, but it was getting closer to it.

The day that Rick had to get up to go to the bathroom and he almost fall head first into the floor because of the mixture of dizziness and pain, though, Daryl knew things had gone too far. And he knew Rick knew that too.

Daryl didn't ask what he was planning to do. He didn't want to know. He pretended he didn't notice the long stares Rick gave him which seemed too much like a goodbye. He pretended he didn't know Rick was scribbling in an old notebook that was lying around the house.

He stayed up for hours watching him sleep, though, and tried to ease away the lines of tension that now were around Rick's mouth even when he was unconscious. It was his own kind of goodbye.

Days dragged away, filled with the same feeling of decay and pain and misery. Daryl was almost starting to wish he would just do it already. Almost.

It would be easier for everybody involved.

It was Daryl's turn on the roof again. He was getting ready, but didn't want to leave just yet. He sat next to Rick and looked in the other direction; he stared at the wall for a long, long time.

Rick's hand fell on his shoulder.

"You should go." He said with an almost perfectly calm voice.

"You sure?" Daryl asked. He didn't turn to look at the deputy. He felt if he did, he wouldn't leave.

"Yeah. Go keep watch."

Daryl nodded and stood up. Rick's hand dropped from his shoulder and closed around Daryl's own hand. They held on tight for a moment, and then Daryl cleared his throat and left the room. For some reason, he felt the need to make as little sound as possible. Like it was already a funeral.

He sat on the roof and stared at the woods. He was waiting to hear Rick's gun, the same way he had been waiting to hear it for the past few days. Today, though, he was pretty sure it was the day.

He wished he had said something, but it wouldn't have made a difference, would it?

The gunshot never came, and he knew why when he got the courage to go back, a couple of hours after dawn. Rick's revolver was on the nightstand, and it glowed in the sunlight. Beneath it there were two folded sheets of paper. Rick seemed to be asleep, only he wasn't breathing and he was still gripping an empty pill bottle.

Daryl leaned against the door and looked at him for a while, half hoping to see his chest move again, hoping to see him open his eyes. It didn't happen.

And he was… relieved.

He went outside, cut a few wild flowers that grew around the house and wondered vaguely why Rick hadn't used his gun. He was curious about that. Why not? It would be easier, because that way Daryl wouldn't have to kill him again.

Daryl set the flowers on the bed and pulled up a chair next to it. He ran his fingers on top of Rick's hand, and Rick's face and found he didn't really care waiting for him to come back and dealing with it. Rick was gone. He had known that for a while, he had made some sort of truce with it already.

Maybe he could just sit there and let it happen, let himself get bit.

"_Might as well quit_." Daryl muttered, remembering a suicide note he had once seen. Back when they still believed things would work out and they would survive. Back when he believed he could find Sophia.

He took the revolver from the nightstand and looked at it. It was clean and well-kept and there were only five bullets left. Maybe that was the reason Rick hadn't used it. Or maybe he had decided to force Daryl to do this to get over things.

Either way, the result was the same.

Daryl looked at the letters Rick had left and took them. Obviously, one was addressed to him and one to Carl. Daryl opened his letter but couldn't read it. He just looked at it for a moment and then he folded it and put it in his breast pocket. He would read it later. Perhaps. If he lived long enough that he felt capable of dealing with it.

Daryl took out his hunting knife and placed it on top of the bed. He tried to make himself a little comfortable in that chair, still undecided about what was he going to do when something happened.

He guessed he would have to wait and see.

–––

"_The heart was made to be broken_."  
(Oscar Wilde)

* * *

_Reviews, anyone C:?_

I can't seem to be able to stop writing these two as a fun couple, exchanging comments and jokes easily. But I think that in this case it only added a contrast to the angsty parts in the end.

I know Carl was mostly absent from this. That was on purpose. Partially, because this was Daryl and Rick's side of the story, and also because of Carl distancing himself from everything.

I've seen pancreatic cancer up close. Kind of. It's a terrible thing and it's really one of the worst kinds of cancer, with little chances of survival. I tried to research it through Wikipedia, but things weren't all that clear. I did my best, though, to make it as close to reality as possible.

About Daryl killing Merle, I've had this feeling that it might happen at some point and probably in defense of Daryl's group. I read this amazing fict called **Iron & Steel**, by** Sandwich Shop Mayo**, that is centered in that and was absolutely breathtaking. Daryl and Michonne are beautifully written and perfectly captured.


	3. Epilogue: Parts 1 and 2

I uploaded this chapter a few days ago, but I deleted it because I was too insecure about it. After I did, I found out what I was missing and started writing a few new parts and changed it a bit. The first episode of the new season gave me an interesting idea. And I'd like to thank, as always, my good **Dropkicking Bullet Shells** for her help when I got stuck with this.

Ok, I know this took long. And I know I promised it would be short, but I kind of can't keep my mind from over-plotting stories xD. And this one in particular has proven to be untamable (this was supposed to be a One-Shot after all).

I want to thank each and every one of my reviewers for this story: **Lady Impala**, **velvetemr73**, **Dropkicking Bullet Shells **and** Yuhi Sakura**. You've all been great, especially since I wasn't too sure about this story to begin with.

For the one's reading this I'd also like to draw your attention to my other ficts, all of which are Rick/Daryl (at least, so far). It takes me a while to update, I know, but I haven't forgotten about any of them. The next chap from **Brothers in Arms** is halfway done. And the next chap from **Brodie** has like one third done.

I never mentioned it, but the author from the song _You Lost Sight on Me_ it's a lovely hipster, folk singer called Micah P. Hinson.

**All mistakes are mine. ****I don't own a thing.**

* * *

**You Lost Sight On Me**

**Epilogue**

_And what shall I do  
When it finally crumbles away?  
Pick up all these years  
That I've seen myself throw away  
To where I know it will be safe  
From all your broke  
All your broken hearts_

–––

**Part 1: Daryl.**

–––

"_Memories are what warm you up from the inside. But they're also what tear you apart._"

(Haruki Murakami, _Kafka on the Shore_)

–––

_They had been patrolling for walkers. There was really no need to go together, especially since spring was coming again and that meant there was a lot to do around the house, but all of them had wordlessly decided to take a day off – sort of. They had made a supply run yesterday that had put them all on great danger, and no one was too eager to start with all the chores they had ahead of them just now._

_So Rick walked right after Daryl as he was going to patrol and hunt, tagging along without saying a word, like he did it all the time. That was how Rick did things, anyway. And Daryl couldn't find a reason to protest, even if he kept shooting the deputy short glances as if asking what he wanted or why was he there._

_But he didn't protest. He enjoyed Rick's company, he couldn't deny that, even if it still made him nervous. They were still getting used to_ them_, to whatever was they were to each other, whatever it was they were doing. Or, to be honest,_ Daryl _was the one getting used to things; Rick seemed to be so sure and certain and calm all the time, and it only added to Daryl's uneasiness._

_(He would later learn that Rick was actually almost as anxious as him, but he would rather try to get past it than simply run away like Daryl did. Well, Rick was always the clever one, the socially capable one.)_

_They had been silent for a long time, just walking together. Daryl tried to forget about Rick's presence, or rather forget all those growing, mixed feelings that made him all giddy and confused and vulnerable at the same time. He tried to focus in something else. They had done this before, just walk side by side, many times._

_Rick started conversation at some point, quietly and about some rather casual subject. He never ever tried to get Daryl to talk, never tried to ask the redneck too many questions; quite the other way around, Rick sometimes let himself ramble about whatever came to mind without much concern. Daryl didn't get it at first, but after a while when he really thought about it, it made him feel important to be able to listen to that – even if most of those words were rather pointless. It was the fact that Rick was confident enough around him to be able to ramble what mattered. And it somehow encouraged him to talk, a lot more than being asked things constantly. If Rick could talk about random shit, then he certainly could listen to Daryl's own random shit._

_And that was new._

_Rick was telling him about something he and Shane had once done when they were kids – something involving a cat, firecrackers and some neighbors' car. Daryl scoffed and held up a low branch for them to walk beneath it._

_"I didn't like Shane."_

_He threw the comment offhandedly, as he always did. He was sure Rick knew it anyway._

_The deputy still arched his eyebrows. He stopped and faced Daryl._

_"Yeah? Why?" Rick asked, making a daring gesture._

_The redneck wondered if Rick knew how much he liked that expression of his._

_"Don't know." Daryl muttered, keeping his eyes in a scratch on the grip of his crossbow. "He was… a hothead, sure, but…" Rick gave a nostalgic smile and Daryl realized he had, at least slightly, killed the mood. "He didn't seem trustworthy. He played against you."_

_Rick nodded and looked away. His smile was now just a smirk and Daryl was very, very sorry he was so awkward and he had effectively turned the lighthearted conversation into a bad memory trip._

_"That he did." Rick finally said, looking at his shoes._

_"'M sorry." Daryl mumbled and then kept on moving._

_Rick followed quietly, all his will to keep a dialogue now gone._

_Daryl slapped himself mentally again, before letting that go. He wasn't good at this, keeping a teasing banter without breaking it all with a deadpan, brutally honest remark. It made him wonder why the hell he believed he could keep someone like Rick interested in him._

_He tried not to think too much about that._

_Daryl was trying to figure something to say (something that wasn't too forced or weird) when he saw the trail and a second later he heard it. Michonne had taught him to _listen_. He stopped dead and made Rick a gesture to do the same._

_"What?" Rick asked, eyes searching around in full alert now._

_Daryl gave a sign to listen._

_Shuffling feet, groans and growls. There was a pack near them._

_Daryl pointed in the direction of the sound and started moving as quietly as he could. They were in the verges of the forest and the trail took them into an open field. Not far, they found a travelling herd. Rick immediately tapped Daryl's shoulder and indicated to pull back, without tearing his eyes from the walkers._

_Daryl stood there for one more second. Rick pulled from his elbow before turning around._

_A loud groan was heard._

_"Shit!" Daryl hissed. "Run!"_

_The house wasn't far away. They avoided the trees and went straight towards their home, and Daryl thanked the safety measures they had taken by digging up trenches and building up barricades._

_He looked behind him and saw a good number of walkers rushing on after them._

_"Carl!" Rick yelled as soon as they were on earshot. "Carl, get Michonne! And stay inside!"_

_Carl was on the roof, gaping at the sight of the herd. His expression seemed, from that distance, both fascinated and horrified._

_"Carl, move!" Rick insisted._

_Carl begun to walk inside the house, slowly, as in a slumber state._

_"Carl, go _now_!" Daryl shouted._

_That seemed to do the trick._

_Rick and Daryl finally stopped and tried to catch their breath. Daryl pressed a hand against his side and grimaced._

_They turned to study the situation. It wasn't so bad. After all this time, a lot of walkers had decayed so much they were almost falling apart, so they were less strong and dangerous than they used to be. Most of the pack (Daryl could estimate around forty or fifty, maybe) would be slowed down by their protections. They wouldn't be overrun so easily._

_He tried to tell himself that, anyway._

_He checked his crossbow and made sure his quiver was right in place before adjusting the grip of his hunting knife. Daryl then looked at Rick, who was holding the machete that had once been Glenn´s weapon of choice and had a determined, calculating expression on his face. Rick studied the trenches and the barricades, just like Daryl had done, and he nodded to himself. Then, he cracked a half grin that was filled with bloodlust and confidence; a hunter's delight shining in his eyes._

_It was the hottest thing Daryl had ever seen._

_It was the most inappropriate time to be thinking that, to be concerning himself with that, while there was a large group of undead creatures coming at them. It was probably the adrenalin from their escape and/or the rush of new adrenalin as they were getting ready to fight. He didn't care at all._

_Rick turned to meet his eyes and seemed a little surprised by the intensity of Daryl's stare._

_The redneck closed the small distance between them and planted a rough kiss against Rick's lips. The deputy let out a muffled exclamation that was followed by a small chuckle, but he then seemed to melt a little against the hand on the back of his neck and the hand on the small of his back the kept them impossibly close._

_They had kissed a lot so far, sure. Rick was usually the one who started it, and they had thankfully already gotten past the point when it was mostly awkward and testing. And, even though Daryl was pretty sure they weren't fooling anyone (how could they, if the four of them spent so much time together?), it happened almost always behind closed doors and it still had some nervous secrecy about it._

_Daryl had finally stopped flinching whenever Rick got into his personal space. He was also finally starting to get into Rick's personal space as well, and his efforts were received with a contained but very sincere amount of approval; just enough that it didn't scare him._

_He had to wonder why Rick stuck with him._

_Rick had to push Daryl a little and mumble something for him to let go. Rick grinned from ear to ear and looked at the redneck with almost the same predatory expression he had given the walkers coming their way. That look held a promise, and it made Daryl's throat go dry._

_"That was… new." Rick muttered. "And good. You should do that more often."_

_Daryl swallowed and made the effort of keeping his eyes on Rick's._

_"I'll try." He agreed, with just a light note of anxiety ruining it all._

_Rick laughed a little._

_"You do that." He nodded._

_"Oh, c'mon, not now." Michonne suddenly scoffed, almost materializing right next to them. She didn't sound at all surprised. "Get a room."_

_Daryl jumped a little. Rick took a step back, and he looked as collected as ever._

_"About damn time, anyway." Michonne added almost to herself and then immediately said. "So... Shall we?"_

_Daryl cleared his throat and nodded, trying to pretend nothing had happened. Rick nodded too, and they started to move._

_They fought and won._

_They piled up as many walkers as they could but didn't burn them just yet. They didn't have enough fuel._

_The promise in Rick's eyes had kept Daryl a little on edge the rest of the day, especially whenever they were alone. And yet, when Rick had discreetly crept into his room, he was finally able to forget it just a little._

_Rick's hands were cold and he was nervous too. It helped, though, to know he wasn't the only one uncertain about things._

_It was too dark to see anything, but Daryl still remembered how Rick's fingers traced every scar they found, taking them in easily, learning them. Daryl would've liked to stop it; he had the feeling that questions and frowns and even disgust could ensue, but he forced himself to let it happen, to forget about it. The questions and frowns and disgust never came at all; in fact Rick seemed to like the scars. He treated them as if he did, anyway._

_Daryl didn't get it, but he never asked._

_Daryl still remembered awkwardness and muffled laughter and that strange twist of happiness when he felt that, despite how weird and graceless they were, how un-perfect it was, it was so _right_._

_Probably. Maybe._

–––

Daryl woke up with a gasp. The first thing he noticed was that his throat was dry as a bone and his head and his back hurt. The next thing was that he had no idea where he was. He wasn't even sure if he had really awakened or not.

It was dark and he threw his arms around him to make out where he was.

It slowly came to him; that he had been asleep but now he was conscious. And that he had been dreaming of things that had actually happened. Years ago. His mind supplied all that had happened after that day, the first time he had ever slept with Rick, and it obviously stuck on the fact that Rick was now dead. This had been their third house, this had been their bed, and Rick was now dead.

For the first time after it had happened, Daryl cried. He felt old and empty and stupid and pathetic. And lonely.

–––

_Daryl still remembered Rick's apparent fixation with that beauty mark over his lip (he had first noticed it by the way Rick stared at it while he talked) and how he kept reaching out to touch it._

_"I like it." Rick had said out of the blue, touching the beauty mark again, when Daryl was falling asleep. "It seems… Unlike you. In a way. But not at all."_

_"The fuck you talkin' about?" Daryl chuckled, opening his eyes again._

_"I'm not sure." Rick replied without much concern, dropping his hand._

_Daryl smirked and after a brief hesitation curled a little closer to Rick (which was hardly his accomplishment, because his bed was small), and the deputy gave an approving hum and did the same._

_They stayed like that for a while._

_"Shouldn't you go back? To yer room or somethin'?" Daryl suddenly asked, his fingers lazily tracing Rick's spine._

_"Mm? Why?" Rick asked vaguely._

_"Don't know… Carl?" Daryl suggested, feeling like an idiot._

_Rick still shared a room with his son, even if Carl kept complaining about it. But they didn't have much of a choice._

_Rick kept quiet for a while._

_"I don't _wanna _go, if that's what you mean." He finally said, propping himself in one elbow. "But if you want me to, I'll do it."_

_Daryl thought about it. Did he? He enjoyed his privacy and wasn't used to sleeping all cramped up in a small cot with other people. But maybe those were just bad excuses, because he actually wanted Rick to stay._

_"Guess not... But I need a bigger bed." He replied, reluctantly._

_"Yeah, I already noticed that." Rick agreed._

_So he had stayed._

_Michonne had woken them the next morning._

_"Hey, wake up!" She said, knocking on the door but (fortunately) not opening it. "It's you turn, Daryl!"_

_He rubbed his eyes and stretched as far as he could (not much, with Rick there). He hadn't slept all too comfortably; he was pressed against the wall and he was too hot. But it didn't take away the goofy smile in his face._

_"Tell Rick I could use help with breakfast!" Michonne added, and Daryl could almost see her grinning mischievously._

_Daryl groaned and the happy feeling was quickly replaced with a nervous twist in his stomach._

_"What?" He asked towards the door._

_"You heard me." Michonne said before walking downstairs._

_Daryl rolled his eyes._

_"Damn it." He muttered._

_"She knows too much. We should kill her." Rick's voice came weird with his face pressed against the pillow._

_"True." Daryl agreed. "We can make it look like an accident."_

_Rick rolled on his back and rubbed his eyes._

_"Hey." He smiled._

_Daryl's stomach twisted again._

_"Hey."_

–––

Daryl woke up again a little after dawn. He dragged himself out of bed and swayed on his way to the bathroom. His back still hurt a lot, especially the lower part, but he couldn't really remember why. He took a few drinks of water and washed his face vigorously. The water was cold and it helped clear away the feeling of old sweat and self-loathing.

Daryl looked at his reflection and hated what he saw. He felt disgusted at himself. He had sunk too low; he had been pathetic and ridiculous.

It was enough.

Daryl took the plastic bag from his nightstand and looked at the remaining meth crystals. It had been a stupid decision to use it; he had been weak and kind of desperate. Well, more like a _lot_ desperate to do exactly the thing he had sworn himself never to do again – not after seeing how meth and all that shit messed up with his brother's head.

Enough was enough.

Was about damn time he picked himself up again. The thought was as relieving as it was scary – he still had no idea as to how he was supposed to bring himself to care about anything anymore, or how to get through all the bad stuff after he had gotten oh, so used to have someone to come back to, and someone who came back to him too. Someone he had come to trust would always be there for him, and someone for whom Daryl would've done anything.

But, then again, he had been alone most of his life. And, as sad as it was, that habit wasn't easily forgotten.

He just had to find his old self again.

–––

_"You really should stop doing that" Michonne told him out of the blue._

_"Doing what?" Daryl asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. He had his reasons; he knew her and when she started sudden conversations, she always said something he didn't want to hear point blank, leaving no chance for escape._

_And, of course, she once again did just that._

_"Running away." Michonne replied._

_Daryl glared at her, but it never worked on Michonne. That always unnerved him about her._

_"I don't run away."_

_"Yes you do. All the time." Michonne nodded. "And people get tired of chasing."_

_"Don't need any advice from ya." Daryl grumbled resentfully._

_She just looked at him, and he shifted under her unwavering stare. She was right and he knew it. _

_That happened just a few days before she disappeared._

–––

Daryl picked up his boots and only then he noticed his clothes were covered in mud - more than usual, that is. He frowned and tried to remember what he had done the previous day. It was all a little blurry, but he remembered dragging rocks and not feeling tired (coming to think about it, that was probably the reason his back hurt like it had been crushed), and he remembered the paranoia taking over, and thinking maybe all those noises were walkers, maybe crawling to him from the forest and under the house, and maybe even Rick was one, and Carl too…

Oh, fuck. Carl.

This is why he hated this stuff. The paranoia had never been so bad before. It was there, but it didn't last as long as the good part. The good part didn't last all that long either, sure, but he had needed to feel good.

Carl had taken him upstairs; he though he remembered that. Maybe.

What a sad old man he was, just like his father had been.

Daryl walked up to Carl's room, but the door was closed and Daryl hesitated. He wasn't sure what he could say, he was never good at talking, let alone apologizing. He stood there and looked all around, like he could find a clue about what was he supposed to do.

In the end he decided to let Carl sleep and talk to him when the boy decided to show up.

–––

_Rick walked out of their bathroom and looked curiously at him._

_"Something wrong?" He asked._

_Daryl, who had been finishing getting dressed, snapped out of his daydreaming._

_"No." He muttered. His voice was raspy and his throat hurt. He was getting out of a bad cold. "Just thinkin' it's almost spring again."_

_"Finally. I'm done freezing." Rick commented vaguely._

_Daryl nodded and closed his jacket, and it only made him feel worse. He had always had high body temperature and almost never needed to dress warmly. But that was before. Now, though…_

_"What is it?" Rick said, frowning a little._

_Daryl tuned to the window and hid his hands in his pockets. He heard Rick come to stand behind him._

_"I'm 49." Daryl murmured._

_"What?"_

_"I'm 49. My birthday was in January, so now I'm 49." Daryl explained, trying to make it sound like he didn't really care._

_Rick put his hands on Daryl's shoulders and squeezed a little._

_"So what?" The deputy asked, smiling. But it sounded wrong, like he felt sorry. Rick slid his arms around Daryl and hugged him. "You're still a looker."_

_Daryl snorted despite himself._

_"Moron." He muttered. "I just don't like it, 's all."_

_Rick shrugged and nuzzled the spot behind Daryl's ear._

_"So what?" He said. "You'll never be_old_, Daryl._Ever_. And I envy your for that."_

_Daryl laughed a little, but then he turned serious again._

_"But I do feel old. That's what I hate. I was never so… cold before."_

_Rick nodded to show he understood._

_"I know." He said and only kept quiet for a while. Then he kissed Daryl's neck. "You don't feel cold, though." He commented, sneaking his hands beneath Daryl's clothes and into his waist._

_Daryl squirmed away at the chilly touch._

_"Fuck off." He grumbled, slightly angry._

_Rick held up his hands to show he wasn't going to do that again. After a pause, he slowly came closer again and Daryl didn't step away, even though he scowled at him. Rick kissed the spot above Daryl's left eye._

_"I love you, old man." He said._

_Daryl sighed and bowed his head, hiding his face against Rick's neck. He almost always did that upon hearing those words._

_"I know." He mumbled._

_Rick smiled._

_"I know you know, Han Solo." He mocked._

_"You know what I mean." Daryl protested._

_"I do." Rick admitted, running fingers through the redneck's hair. "Forget about it. It's spring again and we're fine. And last year was a good year. So fuck it, it was worth it."_

–––

Daryl took the plastic bag again and tried to decide what to do with it. He wanted to throw it away, but at the same time he thought maybe that was too easy.

It was all Merle's fault in a way – this had been his stash, after all. He had caused Daryl more trouble than anyone else in his entire life, even after death. It pissed Daryl off, but he had forgiven his brother long ago, knowing most of Merle's mistakes were born from (usually) good intentions – at least towards Daryl.

Merle had been his brother and he had been loyal to Daryl in his own way, even if he had screwed up Daryl's life and tried to kill Daryl's friends.

It was confusing. Not even Rick had asked much about it.

Daryl slowly walked downstairs, gritting his teeth due to the pain in his back. But maybe he deserved it, for being such an idiot.

What would Rick think of him?

Daryl went outside and towards Rick's grave and was actually impressed by his own work. Had he really taken all those rocks there and put them like that? Why? He had never been the sentimental type, the kind to take that much trouble for something that was obviously so pointless like adorning a grave.

Daryl clutched the plastic bag and frowned. He missed Rick, damn it. He probably always would, from time to time, but he had to stop thinking so much about it or he would end up blowing his brains out soon.

He had wanted to feel better, so he had used Merle's old _blue sky_ and ended up almost breaking his back carrying rocks for Rick's tomb. How fucked up was _that_?

He closed his eyes for a moment. What was he supposed to do now? How was he supposed to leave this behind if he was going to end up standing here every single day for all he knew? If all he could think of when he was lost was "_what would Rick do_"?

Daryl snorted despite himself. Was this his new religion?

–––

_"Yer the best thing that ever happened to me." Daryl whispered._

_Rick didn't reply._

_"You are. So I'm not too sorry about the world ending and all that. Didn't have much before, anyway. Wasn't going anywhere." Daryl kept talking. "And I kinda… fuckin' fell for ya the first time I saw you. I hated ya 'cause of Merle, but I still did."_

_Rick twisted a little and let out a small whimper. The painkillers had him on the verge of unconsciousness but they still didn't make all the pain go away._

_"It's too much. This. I can't… do this much longer." Daryl added, brushing a lock of hair out of Rick's closed eyes. "Good things never last long, that much I know. Not for me, at least. Guess this was the record."_

_–––_

They had to leave. It had been too long. They had stayed put for years and hadn't seen a real herd in a long, long time. Most of them had probably disappeared by now.

And there had to be at least a few people out there, somewhere. Daryl didn't really care much about that part; he could go on living on his own for all he cared – after losing almost his entire group, mostly to the hands of other people, he wasn't too eager to meet new ones. But there was Carl. Carl barely talked to him on a good day.

Even if they didn't find another group, they _needed to leave. _

_Daryl_ needed to leave.

He opened the plastic bag and scattered the meth crystals on the ground.

He was running away again, he realized, but he didn't know what else to do. He couldn't stay, and there wasn't a reason to. He would probably never come back, but why would he? Rick wasn't here anyway.

* * *

**Part 2: Carl.**

–––

"_… of all things, this was the saddest, that life goes on; if one leaves one's lover, life should stop for him, and if one disappears from the world, then the world should stop, too; and it never did. And that was the real reason for most people getting up in the morning: not because it would matter but because it wouldn't._"

(Truman Capote, _Master Misery_)

–––

_Sophia._

_Lori._

_Beth._

_Carl had been 13 and he believed he was in love. His father would later try to explain to him that he was too young to really have been_in love_, but by then Carl had already shut Rick out of his mind. He had nodded like a good boy, but didn't make any sense to those words._

_After all, his father always lied about those things, about the people that had died._

_Beth had been a few years older than him; she had a beautiful voice, blue eyes like him and golden hair like a princess from a fairy tale. Her nose was perfect and it gave her an air of aristocracy. She looked so fragile, sometimes, but she had a mean swing; she was never such a good shooter as he was, but she fought tooth and nail against both walkers and people alike. She carried scars in her wrists and in her heart, but she kept on smiling._

_Carl was only 13, but he believed he was in love, no matter what the rest thought._

_His mother smiled indulgently. Hershel seemed amused and sometimes a little worried – but he was her father after all. Rick, well… he seemed to be torn between pride, humor and sometimes a little bit of embarrassment._

_They all thought it was a boyish crush, puppy love, and didn't take it seriously. And maybe it was, he thought now, but at the time, when there was no one else around…_

_Carl didn't care. Beth liked him, even if she still saw him as a kid. He did all he could for her to notice him, for her to see that he was serious and grounded, that he could take responsibilities and make decisions and keep her safe. He kept waiting for a moment when three years wouldn't seem like much. Three years wasn't much, even his mother admitted that, but she also pointed out that 13 and 16 _were _different._

_So Carl waited._

_In a perfect world, or at least in a normal world, he could've been given an opportunity eventually. He had seen in on TV, on movies he didn't really like, but he still knew it would happen, he would get a shot. But they didn't live in a normal world anymore, so Carl never stood a chance._

_And his father… his father… his father…_

_His father lied. His father promised to protect them all. He betrayed them. He left Beth to die, and lost Lori and Sophia in the process. He was honestly sorry and even cried afterwards, but it meant nothing because the damage had been done. He felt so bad, but the damage had been done and Carl would never forgive him._

_His father had been the reason his mother, his sister and Beth died, and Carl hated him. But his father was all he had now. And Carl loved him; all he ever wanted was to be like him. And Carl didn't care about him anymore, didn't trust him anymore. And all of them would end up dying, in an unannounced, brutal way._

_He didn't even realize when he learnt how to shut them off, but he felt a lot better._

_His father did everything he could to keep him safe, Carl knew it, but a part of him believed it was better if he had been left behind too. Maybe. At least, his father would've been freer to run around without having to take care of Carl._

_Beth stayed with him, though. When Carl was lonely, when he was bored (most of the time, really) he talked to her and tried to imagine what she would say. After years of it, she became another part of him. And he loved her still, even if it wasn't her at all who now lived full time inside his head. He didn't remember her all that well by now, but he still loved her in a way; she was his friend, his companion through endless days and nights._

_Beth. Good, sweet Beth._

_How he missed her sometimes._

–––

Carl walked downstairs around noon. It had been a while since the last time he'd slept that much and felt so tired upon waking up. He grabbed a cold ear of corn and started lazily nibbling it. He didn't want to eat, but his body demanded food.

His dreams had been confusing and dark, and he didn't want to think about them.

Carl found Daryl sitting on the porch, carving a piece of wood and obviously thinking of something else. The redneck didn't acknowledge his presence and Carl stood next to him, resting his free hand on his hip and watching his father's grave, pondering.

Daryl stretched his back and grimaced.

"You ok?" Carl asked.

Daryl shrugged. "You?" he asked back.

Carl shrugged too.

He guessed both of them were fucked up.

Daryl turned the piece of wood between his rough, knowing hands and slid his fingers on it, checking for imperfections even if it looked perfect – at least to Carl. The young man averted his eyes with a small shudder, remembering the feeling of those hands on his chin, remembering the pain that followed after they made him recall just how lonely he was and how no one loved him anymore.

"What was it? What you took." Carl asked. Not that he actually cared, but he was curious.

Daryl went still for a few seconds.

"Meth. Was Merle's." He finally replied and focused on the piece of wood between his hands again. "Threw the rest of it away."

Carl nodded.

"Sorry 'bout that." Daryl suddenly added. Carl stared at him, stunned; Daryl never apologized. "I'm thinkin' we should leave."

"Leave? And go where?"

"Don't know. Just go."

Daryl looked up at the sky, squinting a little. Carl could only stare at him and wonder what had brought this on. He had been pretty damn sure that Daryl would never want to leave this place now that Rick was buried there.

"Ok." The boy agreed. "But why?"

Daryl only looked at him, his face giving away nothing as usual, and didn't answer. Carl was kind of glad he didn't, though. He wasn't completely sure that he wanted to hear the answer.

–––

_Carl had his father's eyes and Daryl couldn't hold his gaze for long. It had bothered him before and it would still bother him for some time, even if Carl was so very different from Rick in almost everything else._

–––

It took them a few days to pack things. They weren't in such a rush; and even if Carl had dreamt about this for years, it made him nervous to finally be doing it.

Daryl, on the other hand, seemed surprisingly determined and he planned things carefully: food, water, guns, and everything else they would need. It was unusual in him, but Carl guessed it gave him something to focus on. Carl did what Daryl asked without any questions and slowly tried to convince himself that it was really happening.

The day before they left Carl cleaned their guns. He was better at it than Daryl. Or so he believed. His father had taught him how to do this and it always gave him a strange peace to remove all the tiny parts and then put them back together again (and it always made him think about the Humpty Dumpty nursery rhyme, which usually played again and again in his head while he was at it).

They had too many guns and too few bullets, he decided. One of the first things they should do was try and find more.

"Want me to clean that one too?" Carl asked when Daryl walked next to him.

The redneck stopped on his tracks and took Rick's old revolver from the holster on his hip. He looked at it for a few moments as if he had never seen it before.

"Sure." He nodded and placed it on the table. Daryl shifted a little with a deep frown on his face. After a moment he quickly added. "Wanna keep it?"

Carl arched his eyebrows and watched Daryl curiously, wondering why Daryl would offer it to him. Then he took the revolver and thought about it. The gun was bigger than the ones he was used to and a lot heavier.

"Nah. Too big for me." He answered with a shrug. "I like the Sig Sauer better."

Daryl nodded again and hesitated a little before leaving to do whatever he was up at that time.

Carl continued cleaning the guns and started to hum. He wondered where they could go now and what would they find. He had never been to the sea, so he guessed they could at least try to get there. Carl started to make some kind of excuse to convince Daryl; he didn't think that the redneck would put much of a fight, but just in case. It was hard to tell with Daryl, and he could be stubborn at the weirdest times.

Carl was starting to get excited about this.

–––

_From time to time, Carl would catch Daryl resting that revolver in his lap and staring at it, almost like he was looking for something. Daryl would also look at it or grip it tight when trying to make a hard decision._

–––

They left an hour after dawn. Carl waited by the car for a while, kicking a few rocks around while Daryl was finishing checking something. Or so he had said. Carl didn't really want to think about it, because he knew Daryl had been lying.

He was growing impatient and was starting to consider going and looking for him when Daryl showed up. He noticed Carl standing by the driver's door but didn't comment on it; he just threw his backpack in the back seat and nodded to Carl to signal he was ready to go.

"Finally." Carl muttered, rolling his eyes and entering the car.

Daryl was watching the house through the side rearview mirror as they drove away. Carl didn't notice; he was only focused on the road and planning all the things he was going to be able to do now. It was a totally unexpected way out of that crazy, endless routine they had been submerged in for the past years. He thought about the shore, and the cities, and the people that had to be somewhere. It was almost too much; he wanted to travel everywhere, he wanted to discover everything he had been missing.

When they arrived at the main road, though, he looked both sides and wondered where to start.

"East or west?" He asked.

Daryl, who had been quiet (as always) and deep in thought, turned to look at him.

"What?"

"East or west?" Carl repeated.

Daryl looked around too, as if just realizing where they were. It was only then that Carl noticed that Daryl was wearing a ring in his right hand and was turning it absently. It was made of gold and it was obviously too small for him, because he was wearing it on his pinky.

_Good God_, Carl thought rolling his eyes again. It was enough already.

–––

_Rick's wedding ring was indeed too small for Daryl, and he was never used to wearing those kind of things anyway; so after he almost lost it the first time, he would put it in a shoelace he took from a dead guy (later it would be chain) and used it around his neck._

_If Carl had read the Lord of the Rings, he would have called him "Frodo" to himself and thought it was amusing._

–––

"West." Daryl finally decided.

"Why?"

"East was never a good idea." Daryl reminded him with an impatient edge in his voice.

"That was like seven years ago." Carl huffed.

"Why you wanna go there?" Daryl asked.

Carl shrugged and stared at his hands on the steering wheel. Daryl started chewing on his thumbnail but he was still waiting for an answer.

"I wanna see the sea." Carl finally replied, forgetting all his carefully thought excuses and feeling a little childish. "Was never there."

Daryl frowned and looked the other side, still chewing on his nail. Carl felt a little ridiculous and pursed his lips, thinking this was when Daryl would snap at him.

"Fine." Daryl grumbled. But he sounded weary. "But let's head south first."

Carl blinked in surprise. He wasn't used to Daryl giving in on things so easily.

"Really?" He asked happily.

"Yep. Now drive." Daryl growled, still facing the other way.

"Which way?"

"Don't care. Just drive." Daryl insisted and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

Carl nodded and smiled. He mentally recited "_Eeny, meeny, miny, moe_" and turned left, laughing to himself. He was going to finally see the shore. Hell, he could go anywhere.

This was going to be so much fun, he thought.

–––

_If they survive long enough, the first woman Carl would ever kiss and later sleep with would be named Joanna. He would call her "Beth" to himself for a while. She looked like a Beth after all._

_She would eventually ask him why he hated Daryl. Carl would say he didn't, and it would feel like lying. He would later say he hated him a little because he reminded him of his father, and it would still feel wrong. He hadn't hated his father; at least, not completely._

_When Carl grew uncertain about Joanna and him, though, he could only think of Daryl to ask for advice, even if all evidence piled up against that decision._

_"Don't run from good things." That would be Daryl's answer. "You'll regret it."_

_Carl wouldn't think it was much of an advice. But he found it was a hard thing to do, especially since he wasn't even sure if it was a "good thing". Maybe it was just the only "something" he was going to get. And maybe that made it good enough._

_–––_

**The End**

* * *

Yeah, I suck.

I have mentioned it before: I _hate_ open endings xD. Hate leaving them hanging like that, because obviously they have such big issues to deal with, so I tried to imagine what could happen with them. Hence, the little flashes-forward. I can see them being screwed up for the rest of their lives, though. Maybe a little less if they meet other people, but screwed up never the less.

I guess I could write something like a vague follow up, just to see how they deal with things… if you encourage me (evil grin). But that's probably just wishful thinking xD.

Love and kisses!

Idril.


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